


Find the River

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Coming Your Way [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Vessels, Amputation, Coming of Age, DeanCasBigBang 2016, Drug Abuse, Hospitals, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Road Trips, Season/Series 02, Suicidal Thoughts, bildungsroman, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Barely a month after recovering from the crash that nearly took his life, Dean’s world is rocked once again, this time the result of an even more devastating injury—the loss of his leg. The accident should have killed him, left Sam alone with a car and without his brother. But in the aftermath, Dean finds unanticipated salvation in a gray-suited man who calls himself an Angel and claims Dean’s life is worth more than he thinks. After Dean’s miraculous recovery, the Angel leaves him to his own devices with a prosthetic leg and a mission—to find out more about this mysterious ‘Castiel’ and the meaning behind why he pulled Dean from the brink of death, why he thought Dean, out of everyone else that day, was worth saving. And maybe, just maybe, Dean can come to accept it as well.





	1. Lawrence Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This roughly takes place a month after the crash at the end of season one/beginning of season two.
> 
> Also, I wanna thank [lostloona](http://xlostloonax.livejournal.com/13800.html) for the artwork for this! God you're amazing!
> 
>  **NOTICE** : I really do appreciate it, but please stop inviting me to place this fic into a separate collection. I'm keeping this solely in the official DCBB collection.

_Me, my thoughts are flower strewn_   
_Ocean storm, bayberry moon_   
_I have got to leave to find my way_   
  
_Watch the road and memorize_   
_This life that pass before my eyes_   
_Nothing is going my way_

 

 

“God, I swear… If you can hear me, we really need your help down here,” Sam Winchester whispered into his steepled fingers, a tarnished rosary dangling between his palms.

Dried blood still streaked down his hands and bare arms, his shirt bearing the most of it, large splotches dying the fabric in every shade of red on the spectrum. From where, he still wasn't sure; the entire incident happened in a blur, and how he got to the hospital, he could barely remember, save for random flashes of traffic lights and _screams_ , wails for mercy from a God he knew wasn't listening. _Wouldn't_ , no matter how hard he pleaded, no matter how much he begged.

Kneeling in the pews of Lawrence Memorial Hospital’s chapel, Sam clutched the beads tighter and prayed, to anyone and anything, to save the soul of the man being rushed into the emergency care unit across the building. “I tried, I really did,” Sam muttered, his breath shaking as he exhaled, very near a whine. “Tried to drive him back into town as fast as I could, but I wasn’t—I almost didn’t make it.” He shook his head, the rosary rattling between his hands. “God, I swear… If you can save him, if you can give my brother back to me.”

Raising his head, Sam pressed the beads to his lips and looked up at the altar a few pews ahead, a row of candles lit below the large, stained glass window, moonlight illuminating the top half of the mural. Alone, Sam wept, silent as he crossed himself. “Just… Please. _Anything_.”

-+-+-+-

Pain—Splintering, burning _pain_ that spread across his limbs and ingrained itself permanently behind Dean Winchester’s eyes, a living, present ache in his leg and across his chest and shoulders. Despite the article Sam showed him a week before, screaming did next to nothing to stop the liquid fire radiating from his wounds, to stop the nauseating urge to rip himself apart just to make it stop. The nurses on either side of the gurney could barely hold his arms down; no matter how hard they struggled, Dean always managed to gain the upper hand, halfheartedly fighting them off with minimal effort. The pain gave him resolve, adrenaline almost sentient under his skin.

“Let me die,” he pleaded, bloodshot eyes unfocused on his surroundings. Above him, the tiled ceiling moved, faster than he could comprehend. His pleas for death went unanswered, overshadowed by his own wails and the shouts of nurses at his side.

Hospital—strangers were carting him off deeper into the bowels of a _hospital_ , the one place he always hoped he would never enter again. A month had passed since the crash, maybe two at the most—that day, he swore he would never go back, not as long as he could help it. And now he was there again, with three men and two women at his side, hauling his mangled body into a green-walled room, complete with blinding overhead lights and several people in white coats and masks. _Surgery_. This was it—today, out of all of the days in his life, would be the day he died on the operating table while Sam waited somewhere else in the building.

He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“Sir, you need you to stay still,” someone said near his head, a command he couldn't help but fight against. Three of the nurses worked to hold him steady while they transferred him from the bloodstained gurney to the operating table, one immediately covering his nose and mouth with a respirator.

“Sir, _please_.” Another voice filtered through, equally imploring, almost frantic. He jerked his head in her direction, finding her face blurred red. He couldn't breathe—couldn't _think_ , not with someone jamming an IV into his elbow joint, not with the constant sound of distorted shouts and voices, some of them his own. “Sir, we’re trying to help, but we’re going to need you to stop moving.”

“Kill me,” Dean whined, his eyes rolling back. Vainly, he attempted to cover the marks gouged into his chest, his hand only coming away bloody, barely visible above his head. “Make it stop,” he pleaded, words slurred with fatigue, garbled in copper. The monitor alongside the table, previously beeping above the noise of the doctors rushing to his aid, flat lined before he could utter another word. The entirety of his vision seized white.

“He’s crashing,” someone shouted, panicked.

 

Reddened mouth agape, Dean looked up to the green tiled ceiling in reverence, every single crack visible, all for one moment. It all made sense, in hindsight—he didn't know why he never thought of it before. The peace before death, the loss of sound and touch and sight, the utter painlessness of it. Vaguely, he knew they were trying to save him, trying to get him stable enough to close his open wounds and his nearly severed leg—a total loss, he knew. But Death would be there soon; Death would take him away from the pain, from the life he never wanted to live. Sam would mourn, sure, but life would lead him elsewhere, preferably somewhere he could settle down. Sam wouldn't have to carry the burden of his brother anymore. Sam wouldn't have to wonder if Death was coming for him, too.

Sam wouldn't _have_ to.

Death came in the form of a blue eyed stare, cobalt breaking through the permanent film covering his vision. He couldn't find words to describe those eyes or the face that bore them, all black hair and stubble, eyes deep set and pitying, cheeks high on his face. _Figures_ , Death would be beautiful.

“Kill me,” Dean cried again—audible or not, he didn't know. Couldn't care to find out, not when Death’s palm cupped his cheek, his entire world centering around the touch alone. And then, silence—blissful, uninterrupted silence, and a warmth he clung to until black engulfed his vision, swept him away in a rush.

-+-+-+-

 _June 15 th, 2006_  
_Lawrence Memorial Hospital_  
_6:03 AM_

Sluggishly, a steady beeping woke Dean, his fingers twitching through the last remnants of REM sleep, resuming their previous calm atop the white cotton sheets. Cream-colored walls greeted him when he opened his eyes, the first hints of morning streaming through partially opened blinds. There was just enough light to illuminate the whiteboard on the opposite wall and the IV rack beside his mechanical bed, the attached heart monitor not quite muted, still audible over the air conditioning units steadily humming on the roof.

Hospital—so he _hadn’t_ died like he had hoped. Faintly, he could feel the sting in his chest and an ever-present ache in his leg, two things no amount of morphine could fix, at least not right away. His first thought was to leave, stumble out of bed before the nursing staff found out he couldn't pay for whatever they did to him while he was out. Sam was probably waiting for him in the parking lot so they could make their escape. But movement proved a major struggle, his arms refusing to cooperate with him as he attempted to remove the sheet from over his waist, too many IV tubes and heart monitors in his way.

Dean let his arms drop after a while, too exhausted to do much beyond stare either at the tiled ceiling or out the window, the sun finally surfacing above the horizon, bathing the room in pale oranges and yellows. Too bright; never once had he watched the sunrise willingly in his life, always stuck in some field in the middle of nowhere America or hiding in a barn hunting down some creature, too busy to take in the sights or care about anything other than not getting his head lopped off. Not a pretty way to go—he would know.

Absently, Dean rotated his left foot under the sheets, watching the motion with idle curiosity. Only one section of the sheet moved, bunching up where his toes flexed underneath; the other side lay dormant, unchanging no matter how long he looked at it, how long he flipped between one foot and where the other _should_ have been. The longer he stared, the more dread filled him, existing somewhere between the haze of medication and the flickering memories in the back of his mind.

 _Think_ , he told himself, clenching his fingers atop the white cotton. Hunt— _wendigo_. Close to the city limits, lurking around a barn on the outskirts of Pleasant Grove. Two teenagers dead, and a third close to dying the last time he saw them. Sam had been at his back, flamethrower in hand. And somehow, the thing had gotten the drop on them, had been determined to string Dean up by the intestines and rip him limb from limb, whichever came first.

After that was a blur with intermittent flashes. Fire and the sound of banging, his own ribs being broken from the outside, his leg bent at an awkward angle—

 _Leg_. With renewed vigor, Dean pushed himself up with one hand and reached down with the other, jerking the blanket off of him, letting it drop over his left leg in shock. At his bedside, the monitor began to beep erratically, his heart beating against his ribs. _That’s not right_ , was his only thought when he reached down, trailing his fingers over the white bandages, wrapped just below the remnants of his knee, some of them stained red with fresh blood. _It’s supposed to be here_.

It wasn't. No movement from his toes, no ability to lift his shin— _nothing_.

They took his damn _leg_.

 

If the heart monitor didn't alert the nurses, his screaming did. Attempting to rip the IV from his arm only frightened the team of nurses rushing into the room, probably terrified out of their minds that something had gone horribly, _horribly_ wrong. _My leg’s fucking gone_ , that was what was wrong—taken while he was passed out from anesthesia and pain, the same pain that now coursed through him, a constant ache that left him howling even as the nurses held him down.

“Dean, you need to calm down,” a familiar voice called to him, her hands on his shoulders, barely enough to keep him from bolting upright. Dean’s elbow bled from where the IV had dislodged, one of them attempting to keep him still long enough to reinsert it. Dean blinked at her, red hair coming into view through tear-clouded eyes, her voice soothing for a grand total of two seconds, until the needle under his skin pulled him back into reality.

“What’d you do to me?” Dean accused, his heart barely in it, not when he could recognize the anguish in her eyes, the gentleness of her hands pushing him back onto the mattress. “Why—”

“Whatever you got caught up in cut through the bone,” Charlie Bradbury hushed, her hand smoothing through his hair when he settled, the monitor still screeching, now going unobserved. Someone brought in another saline bag and injected it with what he _hoped_ was morphine; anything to knock him out, preferably permanently. “We couldn't do anything, Dean. Trust me, we _tried_. But none of the surgeons could reattach it.”

At least now, Dean couldn't feel himself crying, couldn't feel anything but the swift, blissful relief of medication and a minor swelling in his throat, rough when he swallowed. Charlie stayed with him when the other staff left the room, still petting his hair, occasionally checking his vitals on the screen. At least out of everyone that could have shown up, it was her—and for the third time since they met last year, Charlie had saved his life, figuratively and now literally.

But still, that didn't answer the question of where _Sam_ had run off to. “Where’s Sammy?” he slurred, head turned to her, eyes half lidded in the haze.

Softly, Charlie stroked the back of her fingers across Dean’s cheek, warm and gentle. “He drove up to get Mr. Singer. He said he’ll be back by noon.” She stopped, thumbed away the wetness welling in the crease of his nose. “Do you want me to call him?”

Despite the lethargy clouding his brain, Dean shook his head with a sigh, eyelids falling closed. “Shoulda let me die,” he murmured, distant, mostly to himself. He ignored the pained gasp Charlie made and simply reveled in her touch as the morphine dragged him back under, the memory of the hospital room and his leg and _everything_ disappearing for that one moment. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could sleep the rest of his years away, never face the day knowing that his life was effectively over.

He would never walk again—how was he supposed to live with that?

-+-+-+-

_10:59 AM_

A man in a black cassock stood at the foot of Dean’s bed when he stirred, the blinds now lowered to block the harshest of the sun from searing his retinas to his eyelids. For the most part, Dean ignored him, half-lidded eyes locked on the sliver of light pouring through the window while the priest read off something from the Bible in his hands, stopping afterwards to pray with his head bowed. Not his idea—probably Sam’s, if Dean knew any better. Or maybe the hospital had some sort of roaming resident pastor to pray for the severely injured. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Another five minutes, and the priest made the sign of the cross over Dean and left the room, leaving Dean to mourn his transgressions and wish he could open the curtains, just a bit more. It was just a leg—just something he needed to walk with, after all. He could have _died_ , or lost an arm, or been paralyzed. But a leg; he could live with that, albeit against his will. Still, it didn't help him feel any better to admit it. Even _if_ he ever got out of this bed, he would never be the same again. He would never feel the ground beneath both feet or the breeze against his skin, the rough brush of motel sheets, water, the warmth of someone’s hand. All within the span of a few hours, his life had been stolen out from under him, without his knowledge.

 _Sam better’ve gotten the thing_ , Dean conceded, turned his head to the ceiling. The tiles remained the same as they were hours ago, staring right back at him with their bland off-white shade, gray dots speckled throughout. Dean cursed the day drop tiles were ever invented, a belated attempt to shove the blame off of himself.

If Dean really thought about it, it _was_ his fault, after all. Sam had tried to talk him out of it, saying it was still too early to take on a hunt that massive. The scrape across his forehead had only now finished healing from the crash, and his ribs were _almost_ salvageable, no longer waking him up nightly in blinding pain. Now, he had a new set of injures to deal with. The slashes across his torso would heal in time, and as long as they didn't touch his ink, he would never speak of them again.

But the leg—the _leg_ was his new talking point. Pushing upright on unsteady arms, Dean leaned over enough to pull the sheet off, revealing the pale and blood-stained skin there, veined and covered in fresh bandages, no doubt changed while he was asleep. With a slight tremor, Dean touched the stump and cupped his fingers around it, realization dawning.

It was _real_. No longer could he pass it off as a dream, as some sick fantasy concocted by a Djinn or just a _horrible_ nightmare. At some point during the night, they had amputated his leg below the knee and left him disfigured, forever to live with… _this_. Whatever this new normal was.

The door sliding open, quiet as it was, was enough to fully rouse him, the morphine no longer a thick haze over his existence. Charlie entered with another nurse at her back, a black woman with more curls than probably allowed, the mass of them bouncing with every step. Both dressed in blue scrubs, both with mournful, near pitying smiles. “How’re you feeling?” Charlie asked, half checking the IV bag, half watching him.

“’M not gonna jump out the window, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dean retorted, head bowed. He rubbed his stump lightly, just enough pressure to feel it. “Can’t even get over there, anyway.”

Charlie blinked, rubbed the bridge of her nose. “That’s not what I asked, Dean,” she said, stern. Behind her, the other nurse—Billie, her nametag read—rolled her eyes and set her clipboard on the table by the door. “Physically. You can tell me about wanting to haul ass out of here later.”

Dean threw his head back, resisting the urge to laugh at his own misery. “Feel like I got backed over by a semi about five times,” he started. “Pretty sure I haven’t eaten in two days, I got somethin’ shoved up my boys, and I need the world’s longest shower.”

“Charlie can help with you that once I’m done here,” Billie cut in, pulling on pair of sterile gloves. “I need to empty your drainage bag and check your leg. Better get used to it, you’re gonna be here for a while.”

 _Great_. Just what he wanted to think about, living in a four by seven room for the foreseeable future with Charlie and the woman intent on torturing him every few hours to empty his damn _catheter_. In defeat, Dean watched the blank television on the wall while Billie carried on about her duties, discarding and then replacing the bag somewhere at the end of the bed. Afterwards, she moved onto unwrapping and re-bandaging his stump, tossing the partially bloodied scraps in the biohazard bin after she finished. “You’re gonna be in bed for a few days, but Charlie can give you a sponge bath, that sound good?”

Dean nodded, turned to Charlie once Billie left the room, the door clicking behind her. “I can’t afford this,” he sputtered, the words out before he could comprehend just what he was saying. “You know I can’t… I normally tuck tail and head for the hills, I don’t got any—”

“I know, Dean. Trust me.” Charlie squeezed his shoulder over the thin fabric of his gown, right over a blooming bruise; if he winced, she paid him no mind. “Look… Sam wanted to tell you, but—”

“Tell him what?” Both Dean and Charlie turned towards the intruder, and for the first time in the last few days, Dean smiled, the monitor once again shrieking. Sam stood in the doorway with a nondescript paper bag in hand, with a sheepish grin, floppy hair and all. Somehow, he had the forethought to set the bag down before rushing to Dean’s side and hugging him over the bedrail, Dean’s face smashed into his chest. “Thought you weren’t gonna make it,” Sam admitted, patting Dean’s back.

“…Didn’t think I would either,” Dean said, muffled, before pulling away, fighting a shudder. Out of sight of Sam, Dean pulled the sheet back over his leg and smoothed it down, looking anywhere but his brother. “Charlie said you went up to get Bobby?”

“That’s what I was gonna _tell_ you,” Charlie commented, jamming her finger in Sam’s ribcage. “Your brother’s about to pull the insurance scam of the _century_.”

“And Charlie,” Sam nudged her back with enough force to knock her a step to the side, “is gonna make sure no one finds out. Bobby’s got all the paperwork.”

Dean huffed. Not that insurance fraud wasn't already on their laundry list of grievances against the United States, but the thought of keeping up the charade for that long left a sour taste in his mouth, nothing to do with morning breath or the tube they probably shoved down his throat half a day ago. For all he knew, he could be staying there for the rest of his life, confined to a bed and hobbling back and forth to the bathroom. His eye twitched with the thought—he needed out of there, as soon as possible.

“Where is he, anyway?” Dean asked, running a shaking hand through his hair, more from nerves than anything. “Surprised he ain’t up my ass already.”

Sam glanced to the door, fingers fidgeting against the waistband of his pants. “He’s trying to get the paperwork through, so if he comes in here—”

“None of us are gettin’ dragged off to the big house,” Dean finished. Swallowing, he turned to follow Charlie as she walked across the room to open the blinds. Clouds began to bubble on the horizon. Storms, maybe; rain, definitely. “…When’re y’all busting me outta here?”

Both Charlie and Sam stared—just _stared_ , Charlie’s mouth agape, Sam stumbling over his attempts to speak. “You—Dude, you’re not going _anywhere_ ,” Sam stammered, eyes wild. “You really think you’re getting out of this one that easy?”

“Sam’s right,” Charlie accused. Dean watched her approach the bed and grab his shoulders, probably an attempt to shake some sense into him. The longer she held on, the faster he lost focus, his vision blurring with unshed tears, throat working to choke down fear. He really _was_ going to spend the rest of his life there. “Look at me,” she asserted, forcing him to face her, his eyes wet. “You just lost your leg, Dean, and it’s not gonna grow back. You’re gonna have to learn how to live with it and how to walk again, and that means months. _Months_ of working to get you back out there. But you can’t just… run _off_ when things don’t go your way!”

“And we’re not gonna just leave you here either,” Sam joined in, arms folded across his chest. Dean looked between him and the monitor, screeching again; Charlie put it out of its misery and shut it off, unclipping the sensor on his finger. “Look, I know you don’t wanna be here—”

“Got that right.”

“—But we’re gonna get you through this. It’s not a death sentence, it’s just—”

“My leg?” Dean shot him a glare and reached down to pat his stump, wincing with the fresh wave of pain radiating outward. “It might as well be the end of the world,” he half shouted. “I can’t go back out there like this, Sam. I can’t go legit like you, I can’t just hang up my coat and call it a day, not with the shit I’ve pulled! I’ve got no…” He stopped, hung his head; he wasn’t having this conversation _now_ , and in front of Charlie, of all people. “…If I can’t hunt, then what good am I?”

 

Neither Sam nor Charlie responded, both opting to gape at him, words hanging on their lips. Dean ignored them and pulled the sheets off fully, motioning himself to the edge of the bed. “I need to be alone,” he mumbled, mostly to himself.

Even without looking, he knew Sam was nodding, probably harboring some of the blame for Dean ending up _here_ , crippled and ashamed of himself. Sam didn’t deserve to be yelled at, didn’t deserve how Dean treated him—but he was there, an easy target. Tensions were high; Dean didn’t know who to blame more. Himself for taking the hunt in the first place, or Sam for thinking everything would turn out alright. Ever the optimist to his pessimist. “I’ll go check on Bobby,” Sam offered, low, before turning, pointing at the bag on the table. “Got you something from the food court.”

Dean clenched his fist when Sam left, knuckles white the longer he exhaled, sucking in breaths just to calm himself. Charlie soothed him with a hand to his neck, almost enough to bring him back down. But that alone brought him to tears again, weeping into Charlie’s chest in silence. “They should’ve let me die,” Dean mourned, clutching her waist with one hand. “Should’ve—”

“Who?” Charlie asked. She pushed Dean away, far enough for her to look down at his face, her palms cupping his jaw. “Who—Did you see something?”

A nod; Charlie pulled him in again, and softly, he could feel her heart beating against his ear. “When they brought me in, I saw… _someone_ standing over me.” He paused, closed his eyes. “…I think they saved me.”

Charlie hummed, the tone reverberating through her chest. “Do you really believe that?” she asked, stroking through his sweat-damp hair. “Like, I know people claim they see Angels when they’re having near death experiences, but I didn’t think…”

“I don’t know what it was.” Fresh tears spilled down his face when he looked to the window, clouds creeping up on them. “…But it’s why I’m here.”

-+-+-+-

_11:59PM_

The memory of pure, unsullied blue woke Dean from his slumber, his face streaked wet with tears, his hairline soaked. With both hands, he wiped away the tracks and dried them on the bed, his efforts ultimately in vain. At some point while Charlie was doing her rounds and Sam and Bobby were sitting on the couch by the window, he had fallen asleep, dead to the world for a good portion of the afternoon, probably with the aid of whatever the nursing staff decided to pump into him for the pain. At least he hadn’t thrown up yet, not after Sam had insisted on feeding him with whatever he could get upstairs from the food court.

“Get used to it,” Sam had said, lighthearted; Dean had rolled his eyes and dug in, a temporary respite to one of the worst days of his life.

But now, he was alone—trapped it that off-white room with the blinds pulled open, the moon peeking through a gap in the clouds, casting a glow over his bed, barely brighter than the streetlamps a few floors below. Sam probably rented him and Bobby a hotel for the night; the couch could barely fit _himself_ , let alone two grown men going on six feet each. The television, probably ten years old, from his guess, sat undisturbed on the wall, remote left on the table next to an empty coffee cup and John’s jacket, two massive holes ripped through the back.

From across the room, he wished it would catch aflame. The first thing on his list of things to do once he left the hospital—burn it, scatter the ashes in some derelict field somewhere and pray it never saw the light of day again. Too many memories associated with it, too many years chasing down the ghosts of a past he could barely remember, even to that day. All for nothing—all for him to end up in a hospital bed with no prospects, no reason to continue fighting, especially not like this.

The longer he thought on it, the deeper the ache spread through him, until every breath came out in a wheeze. He pressed his palms into his eyes. Nothing stopped the pain: no drug, no prayers, no _condolences_. Wired to a cot, Dean let out a broken sob and cast a bleary glance to the door, praying for something, _anything_ to make it stop.

“You’re looking the wrong way,” a voice said to his right, near the window. Dean bolted upright at the noise, nearly ripping out his IV in the process. Even then, that wouldn’t have shocked him as much as the man that leaned against the windowsill, his hands resting on the lip, fingers tapping the plaster in perfect rhythm. Cobalt irises watched him with mirthful scrutiny, full, pale lips curled into a small grin, almost comforting. The gray of his suit stood out in contrast to the light pouring in behind him, the moon casting an ethereal glow behind his head, somehow reaching his eyes. Bright—he _knew_ those eyes.

 

Throat dry, Dean struggled to say _something_ , his words caught on his tongue. “You don’t need to say anything,” the stranger spoke, crossing the scant space between them. He fit his palm over Dean’s cheek and held it there, long enough for Dean’s initial wariness to subside, replaced by something warm, quiet. “You’re in pain.”

“…You were there,” Dean managed, voice haggard, on the verge of cracking. He reached up to cover the stranger’s hand with his own, holding it tight. “You— _You_ were the one that brought me back.” The man nodded, once. “…Why?”

His kiss was light at first, lips pressed gently to Dean’s forehead, the barest hint of intent seeping into his skin. Dean flushed with the touch, eyes fluttering against his will the longer the stranger stayed there. Intimate could barely describe it; with just his hand and a single kiss, the man had broken through every barrier Dean had put up, melting every trace of anxiety and rage into nothing, leaving something warm behind, something peaceful. “You’re not human, are you?” Dean muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.

The stranger rested their foreheads together in answer, and out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he could have sworn he saw the faintest of shadows expanding behind his back, blocking out the moonbeams and submerging the room into darkness. “You prayed,” the man answered and pulled back, once again tipping up Dean’s chin in a gentle caress. “You may not have been aware of it, but you called out to me.”

Dean couldn’t bring himself to laugh; not now, probably never again. “Ain’t got no one to pray to,” he spoke, eyes closed. Still, he could feel the stranger staring at him, could feel his fingertips grazing his neck, trailing down to his collarbone, feather light. “Ain’t got anyone to save me, either.”

A sigh, followed by, “You do now.”

Opening an eye, Dean cocked a brow at him, wary of the man’s smile and the fleeting touch of his hand, drawn away too soon; those same fingers hovered above the thin sheet covering his stump, over the rise and sudden dip where his shin should have been. “With your permission,” the stranger started, looking up just enough for Dean to meet his eyes, “I can fix this.”

Dean swallowed, his throat clicking. “What, like bring it _back_?” he choked. As far as he could recall, no creature he had ever met could heal a wound, let alone regrow an entire _limb_.

The suggestion only lifted his hopes enough for him to feel the sting of denial. The stranger shook his head and lifted the sheet, never fully removing it. “I can’t fix what’s been taken,” he spoke, voice gravel rough in the silence, “but I can make it easier. I can heal you, as well as possible. As of right now, you have a minor infection that they won’t find out about until morning.”

 _It’s too good to be true_ , Dean considered; essentially, what the stranger was promising was a miracle, and solely for _him_ , to save his life once again. To keep him _breathing_. He had already done it once, when Dean was staring Death straight in the face on a bloodied hospital bed—could he really do it _again_? “What…” Dean stopped, shook his head. “…Last night, what’d you do to me?”

He winced at the pressure on his stump, the stranger massaging the sensitive skin, a chill radiating from his fingertips into Dean’s nerves. “You were going into cardiac arrest,” the man answered, simple. “I saw your soul leaving your body, and I couldn’t… I wouldn’t let you die like that.”

“But why?” The words came out in a rush, foreign to Dean’s lips; the man cast him a look, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why… You’re in a hospital. There’s gotta be someone else—a kid, someone in a car crash, _someone_. I don’t—”

“You’re worth more than you think, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s blood ran cold at the sound of his name being spoken in full, and by this creature, no less. He needed to call someone; hit the emergency button on his bed and alert the night watch, alert them to the intruder standing at his bedside, probably poised to take his life at any moment. “You’re bluffing,” Dean jeered, sitting up straighter. Leg or not, he could at least fight the guy off it he tried anything. “You waltz in here thinking you can smooth talk me into letting you heal me? And then what?” He chuckled despite the pain in his ribcage, wincing in the aftermath. “…What _are_ you?”

The stranger continued his ministrations for a short second before Dean let out a gasp, a frigid rush flowing through his veins until everything, every minor ache or pain, every tear in his flesh, every gaping wound ceased to exist. No longer did his leg throb with every breath, no longer did his chest itch while his skin struggled to knit itself back together. Everything was _gone._ Hands to his chest, Dean peeked under the collar of his gown to find nothing but unmarred—if scarred—skin; the same fared for his leg, the veining that had spread from the amputation dulled to a light silver.

 _Gone_ , he thought, and finally lifted his head to look at the man, something mirthful in his eyes. “I’m an Angel,” the stranger— _Angel_ , apparently—stated, his eyes ethereal, glowing.

Dean barely restrained the urge to laugh—Angel. An actual _Angel_. “Angel,” Dean repeated, hands in his lap. “…You’re tellin’ me an _Angel_ saved my ass?” He stopped, mouth agape when the Angel nodded. “…And you couldn’t’ve fixed my damn _leg_?”

The Angel snickered under his breath and straightened himself, his loafers clicking as he crept closer to the bedrail; Dean’s skin burned hot when he touched him again, this time cupping Dean’s chin. “I saved what I could,” he spoke. “You.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Dean let his eyes slip closed, body falling lax in his hold. “Why?” he repeated, quiet.

The Angel didn’t answer at first, too intent on thumbing Dean’s cheek, wiping away the tears that once again fell, this time from exhaustion. Sleep nagged at his brain, clouding his vision when he yawned. “You’ll have to find that out on your own,” the Angel whispered, too close to his ear, too close to _everything_. “Find me, Dean. When you figure it out, find me and tell me.”

Slowly, the Angel’s voice faded, shifting to a low rumble in his consciousness. With the last of his strength, he pulled at it and held it close, eyes slipping open just enough to watch the Angel smile, just barely. “What’s your name, ‘least,” Dean slurred, the pillow sighing beneath his head.

A breath, and another kiss, to the tip of his nose. “Castiel,” he spoke. “That’s all you need to know.”

 


	2. Lawrence Part 2

_June 16 th, 2006  
6AM_

“What the hell do you mean, it’s fixed?”

Dean jolted awake at the sound of his door slamming open, a group of nurses running in alongside a doctor to join the three already standing there—Charlie included—effectively filling the space beyond fire capacity. Whatever Charlie had been doing while he was asleep—checking his bandages or shoving crayons up his nose, he didn’t know—she had discovered something. Thankfully, she had the presence of mind to leave the rest of him covered, shielding whatever was left of his dignity.

“I’m saying, it’s fixed!” Charlie exclaimed, her fingers flexing around his knee; Dean winced and fell flat, blinking blearily at the ceiling tiles. What time was it, anyway? “No veining, no discharge, nothing. No pain either, right?” Dean watched her glance over her shoulder, clearly expecting an answer. He lifted his thigh in answer and let his head loll to the side, a vain attempt to shrink himself away from whatever conversations the staff were having over his leg, now miraculously healed.

 _Miracle_. His blood ran cold at the idea, skin clammy with the memory of just who had visited hours ago, who had touched him like a lover and whispered honeyed words in his ear, who proclaimed that Dean was more than the sum of his parts. Or, lack of parts. Inwardly, he thanked the absence of the heart monitor; they didn’t need to know just what was raging in his head.

Someone—a nurse with blindingly red hair that fell in thick curls cascading down her front—pushed her way through the group to stand at Charlie’s side, cupping his stump with both hands. “This doesn’t hurt?” she asked, tapping her fingers across his skin, trailing down to the centermost point of his leg. Dean shook his head; it tickled, if anything. Harder presses followed, until she gently shoved; Dean pushed back, just enough to alarm her. “Nothing,” she muttered, turning from Charlie to the surgeon at her back, fear in her eyes. “He’s progressed months ahead in a single night—”

“That’s not possible,” another voice chimed in, lost in the throng of nurses and desk attendants and now residents.

“You’re suggesting a miracle?”

“I’m suggesting you don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“He could walk out of here today if he wanted!”

 _Walk_ , he huffed, pinching his eyes shut. “Get out,” he hissed, audible to only the people closest to him, namely Charlie and Annie. “Get _out_.”

At once, the bickering ceased, the air conditioner humming along in the background. “Alright, alright,” Charlie called, waving in the direction of the door. “If you’re not Dr. Chambers or Billie, you need to leave. Breaking the fire code.”

With a shove and more yelling, Charlie ushered the majority of them out of the room, one woman remaining. Dean barely recognized her from the morphine haze, her brown hair tied back in a tight bun, white coat specked with blood she probably hadn’t had a chance to wash off. Her gray eyes peered through the rim of her black glasses, horrified at the turn of events. Dean’s chart in hand, she closed the door behind them and locked it, just for the time being; long enough to keep the residents from looking in.

“Charlie,” Dr. Chambers started, restraint in her voice, “When you said ‘miracle’…”

Charlie motioned to Dean, Dean now firmly staring at the ceiling and wishing it would cave in. “It’s just—He was bad off yesterday. Really bad off. Like, worse than Anakin when he got burnt up—”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Charlie—”

“—I’m _getting_ there,” Charlie shot back. “Look, all I’m saying is, something _happened_. And whatever it was, he’s _fine_.” She paused to look between his face and his leg, finally covering it with the sheet, more for his comfort than anything. “Seriously, I think we could get Billie in here today.”

Dr. Chambers shook her head, arms crossed, tapping her clipboard against her hip. “And you’re positive?” Setting the chart on the couch arm, Dr. Chambers lifted the sheet enough to get a full view of his leg; her eyebrows shot up, much to Dean’s subdued amusement. “…And you’re _absolutely_ sure he was admitted yesterday?”

“You were there when they wheeled him _in_ ,” Charlie complained. “You saw how bad off he was!”

“I’m sitting right _here_.” With a breath, Dean pushed himself upright and rubbed his face, already in need of a shave. Maybe he could get Sam to bring him a razor when he and Bobby came back to sit on the couch all day. Both Charlie and Dr. Chambers watched him with wary eyes; Dean bowed his head, letting out a deep sigh. “…What’s this all mean?”

“Other than the fact your leg looks like it’s been years since it happened?” Dr. Chambers scratched her ear and covered Dean’s leg again, this time for good. “…How much faith do you have in religion, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean let out a hollow laugh and fisted his hands in his lap, knuckles white. The very notion of religion filled him with dread, the inkling of _something_ haunting his memories: soft lips, a hand caressing his skin, whispered praise in his ear. Whatever it was, it knew his name, knew the one thing he never told people, not even under duress. “Don’t put much stock in it,” Dean shrugged, foot twitching. He gave up attempting to bend his other leg, the action almost foreign, even after a day of being stationary. “’Sides, don’t believe anything’d wanna save my ass, anyway.”

Charlie opened her mouth to refute him; Dr. Chambers cut her off, both arms crossed. “I’m not much for that stuff myself, but whatever fixed you?” She paused to tap her fingers against her coat, a strand of hair falling free. “You’ve got an Angel looking out for you.”

Scoffing, Dean ignored the look of pity Dr. Chambers cast him before she left the room, her flats soundless on the tile floor. “You saw something, didn’t you?” Charlie butted in, abrupt enough to send a quick jerk up his spine. “Dean, look at me.” He didn’t— _couldn’t_ , not when the truth sat so heavily on his chest, leaving him sucking in deep breaths every few seconds. “ _Dean_.” Palming his cheeks, Charlie forced him to face her. “I won’t tell anyone. Unless you’re hallucinating, then I’ll get someone in here. But if something touched you—”

“Some guy,” Dean said in a rush, fear seizing his lungs. “Some guy—He was in here last night, said he was an Angel. Didn’t tell me why he saved me, just said he couldn’t let me die.”

“What’d he look like?” Charlie’s hand felt cold against his skin, her pulse jolting.

Dean blinked, squinting against the burgeoning light through the window, Charlie doing nothing to keep the sun out of his eyes. “…Blue eyes? Looked like he walked in out of a tornado. Had this tacky gray suit, and he just… Showed up. Woke up and he was there.”

Letting out a long breath through her nose, Charlie took a step away, beginning to pace the window. “It’s not possible,” she muttered to herself, twirling the ends of her hair. “Like, vampires maybe. And maybe that thing that lived in my grandma’s basement—”

“We took care of that, Charlie.”

“—But Angels?” She stopped, rested both hands on the top of the couch. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen as much as you have—”

“And we’re gonna keep it that way.”

Last summer had been a nightmare; what was supposed to have been a run of the mill nest of ghouls gone awry turned out to be mass kidnappings committed by a Roc, snatching people up from the woods inside Clinton State Park and massacring them in the dead of night, leaving their bodies broken and pecked clean before daylight. Charlie had been a prospective victim, her and a few friends having been summer camp counselors at the time. One child had already been abducted, and the damn thing had its sights on Charlie before both he and Sam loaded it full of silver shot and let it burst into flames.

Charlie hadn’t left unscathed, and the little boy lost an eye in the aftermath. Still, they pushed through, and Charlie kept in contact, always the little voice in the back of Dean’s head before he did something drastic like make deals with Demons or misjudge whatever was haunting the next town over.

Plus, a degree in computer science didn’t hurt, especially now. Bobby’s paperwork went through without a hitch—now, all they needed to do was keep quiet and leave before anyone got suspicious.

“But Angels?” Charlie spun and fell onto the couch, head thumping the windowsill. “…Then again, I didn’t think Are You Afraid of the Dark would be real, either.”

“Neither did I,” Dean groaned. “But whatever he is… He healed me. Completely. Look—” Maneuvering proved difficult, but he managed to worm an arm out of his gown to bare his chest, the scratches previously marring his skin now gone, replaced by silvered streaks. Charlie’s eyes widened, her mouth agape. “…And I think he popped my ribs back in, too.”

Charlie just stared, awestruck for a long moment. “This is insane,” she sputtered, standing; Dean jumped when she traced two fingers over the longest of the scars, reaching from his navel to just below his shoulder. “You’re—Have you told Sam?”

“What?” Dean blinked, huffed out a laugh. “Dude, only reason I’m awake’s because you started pokin’ me. I don’t even know where he’s staying.”

“They’re both at my place,” Charlie offered with a shrug. “I have that guest room. Figured it’s better to have someone in there than let the cats nest.”

That answered that question—but why had that never come up before? “And you’re just telling me _now_?”

Charlie propped her hands on her hips, one foot tapping on the linoleum floor. “You were barely conscious yesterday, and if you were, it was only long enough for you to…” She stopped, shook her head. “Just trust me. …How’re you feeling, anyway?”

Dean shrugged. Aside from being woken up by mumbling residents and more nurses than he could recall ever seeing in one room, he hadn’t had the chance to consider his own ailments. For now, the ever present pain had faded, save for the phantom ache in his leg, a futile attempt to flex the toes that were no longer there. Reaching down, he uncovered the stump and palmed it, squeezed hard enough to feel his fingertips dig in, still nothing like yesterday when his body had felt like a livewire, every nerve frayed and torn.

“…He really did save me,” Dean murmured, tracing the silvered scar tissue and the faint veins that had been blood red only hours ago, angry and inflamed.

Charlie’s hand covered his own, helping him to move his fingers in small circles along the edges. “You need to massage it every once in awhile,” she said in defeat. “Just… You had me worried _sick_. I thought you were dying when Sam brought you in, Dean. I thought that was the last time I was gonna ever see you, and now, you’re alive because some… _Angel_ saved you. Do you know what kinda whiplash this is?”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean snorted. Silence lapsed between them, accompanied by the air units kicking on and a bird screeching outside, perched on the windowsill. “…Am I ever gonna get outta here?” he asked before he could stop himself, his voice waving towards the end. “I wanna… I got an idea.”

Seating herself on the couch arm, Charlie propped her chin up on her hands and batted her eyelashes at him. “What’s on your mind?”

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat, straining to seize the last strain of self-control he had left. “…I wanna figure out why he did it. So that means I gotta bust ass and walk outta here, right?”

“I’d hope,” Charlie offered with a smile. “You wanna wait for Sam and Bobby to get back before you do anything drastic?”

A laugh; Dean continued to rub his leg, working to cement the reality in permanently, let it sink into his soul. _Walking_ —he could walk again, maybe. “Better get on the phone, then,” he said, resolute. “Don’t wanna leave without them.”

-+-+-+-

_Noon_

“Road trip?” Sam spat, more exaggerated than necessary. Dean rolled his eyes from the edge of the bed and looked back to Billie, too busy watching her take a plaster mold of his leg to concentrate on much else. “Like, get back in the car? The thing that almost got you killed in the _first_ place?”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to let me drive in Talladega,” Dean huffed. Plaster was quickly rising on the list of the most uncomfortable things to ever touch his skin, especially with how long Billie raised his thigh, his knee wrapped in something that felt oddly like snot and papier mache. Only a few more minutes, he guessed, based mostly on the way Billie looked down at her watch. “Look, I told you what he said he was, right? So if he healed me, maybe he’s running around the country doin’ the same thing.”

“You think?” Sam jeered. Dean glared over his shoulder, catching the look Sam shot between him and Billie. ‘With her here?’ he watched Sam mouth.

Billie cleared her throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Dean’s already filled me in,” she mentioned and tapped the mold; Dean fisted his gown tighter. “Didn’t figure Angels were on your radar. Sure’s hell weren’t on mine.”

Sam gaped; Dean snickered under his breath. “You’re—?”

“A hunter?” Billie answered Sam, a smirk on her lips. “Side job. Think of it this way. Me’n Charlie are the only ones keeping the police off your asses, at least until you’re out of our hair.”

Dean fidgeted, still watching Billie count down the final seconds on her watch. “’N how long’s that gonna take?”

Shrugging, Billie lowered her hands and worked to remove the plaster from Dean’s leg without pulling out the majority of his hair; Dean winced, mourning the few strands that ended up in the negative mold. “Put your leg down, honey,” she instructed; Dean didn’t have to be told twice. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow, but you’ll have to come back once a week for the next few months for therapy. You got someone to drive you?”

Dean opened his mouth to answer, promptly snapping it shut. Driving—he would have to give up _driving_ , among other things. His entire life boiled down to one incident, the one thing that gave him mobility, gave him a reason to breathe in the morning. And all of it was gone.

Sam rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder, Dean deflating under his touch. “I’ll take him,” Sam offered, solemn. “Our uncle lives outside Sioux Falls, we’ll be there until he’s up and on his feet.” Sam pushed him, solely to catch his attention. “Right?”

Dean didn’t respond—didn’t do much of anything other than stare at the window, anywhere but at the two people in the room with him. Before now, the reality hadn’t fully dawned on him, just how his life would change over the course of one night. Months of physical therapy and learning how to walk again, years of learning how to adapt to a world not made for him. Lying to himself wouldn’t work—nothing would be the same, not unless God decided to come down and stitch his bones back into place and say it was all a horrible nightmare made to test his faith.

What faith could he possibly have after this?

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Billie soothed, smoothing her hand over his shoulder and down his arm, cupping his elbow. “None of us are asking you to accept it. But right now, you need to trust that this isn’t the end of your life. We’re strong folk, Dean.” She ruffled his hair before gathering her kit at his side, the mold placed into a box. “If anyone’s gonna get through this, it’ll be you. You’d best keep your head above water. I’ll be seeing you next Thursday, so don’t do anything stupid before then.”

“What’s Thursday?” Dean and Sam echoed, both watching Billie round the bed and open the room door, florescent bulbs pouring through the opening.

Billie turned and smirked. “I’m your physical therapist,” she answered and waved them off.

 _Great_. Hanging his head, Dean let out a groan as soon as Billie closed the door, leaving him and Sam in silence again. Sam didn’t speak at first, simply walked to the couch while Dean arranged himself in bed, throwing the flimsy sheet back over his lower half. “She’s right, you know,” Sam mentioned after a while, fiddling with the television remote in hand. “About it not being your last lap.”

“…I know,” Dean admitted, head in his hands. Saying it didn’t make it hurt any less, nor did the look that Sam shot him; those damn eyes could make anyone cave, no matter who. “Don’t realize what you got ‘till you lose it, right?”

“Technology’s advancing,” Sam shrugged. “Sure, we’re not into bionics yet, but they can get close enough. This isn’t the death sentence you think it is, you know.”

 _It might as well be_. “Guess I’m gonna have to go legit,” Dean muffled into his hands. “Think they’ll hire a cripple like me?”

Sam balked. “You’re not a crip—”

“Then what the _hell_ am I, Sam?” Dean snapped, hands in his lap. Sam stared at him, wide eyed and terrified as Dean continued, “I got no job, I got no house. And as far as I know, you, Charlie and Bobby are the only family I have. All I got to my name is a car and the twenty in my wallet, and a list of odd jobs that barely lasted a month.” He stopped, swallowed past the sinking feeling in his stomach. “…How do you think this is fine? How, in any world, do you think this is okay?”

“You’re not dead,” Sam asserted, standing. Dean tensed under Sam’s hands on his shoulders, squeezing him tight, probably enough to bruise. “You’re my brother, and you’re not dead. And if you wanna go through your midlife crisis and drive off into the sunset on some wild goose chase, then I’m going with you. But you’ve got to get _over_ yourself.” Sam shook him with determination. “No more lies, no more credit card schemes, no more hustling and bumming out of the car. You’re more than what dad taught you, Dean. …You’re better than he ever was.”

Dean scoffed, wringing his hands together. “You think I’m supposed to just accept that?”

“Not now,” Sam added. “But someday. You’ve gotta decide that for yourself.”

But how was he supposed to do that when he couldn’t even trust himself? Life on the road was all Dean knew, aside from a few scattered memories of a white picket fence and a house he hadn’t stepped foot in since Mary’s ghost called out to them. All of it had been too long ago, abruptly stripped away in the course of a single night, forcing him into a life he didn’t even want and a job that almost killed him, left him mangled and useless. How was he supposed to bounce back from that?

Sam let up his hold and turned his back, walked to the window to stare out at the mid-morning sun, the rich blue Kansas sky seemingly endless. _One step at a time_ , he figured, lowering his head. “I wanna get outta here,” Dean confessed, wrapping his arms around himself. “…And I want a damn cheeseburger. Swear if I gotta eat what’s on their menu for another day, I might choke myself.”

Sam nodded, a smile on his lips. “I’ll go see when you can get discharged.”

-+-+-+-

_June 17 th, 2006  
8:03AM_

Never before had Dean missed feeling the sun against his skin more than now, sitting in a wheelchair with Bobby at his back, both waiting for Sam to return with the car. For once, he didn’t mind the rising temperature outside or the sweat beading at his nape; at least it wasn’t recycled air conditioning and the stale scent of antiseptic. No more screaming at all hours, no more visits from the pastor, no more sorrowful looks from everyone who ventured into the room.

Nothing but the sun, warm and scalding and _real_. “Felt like I was never gonna get outta there,” Dean said, soft, his face turned to the cloudless sky. No longer could he feel the rough scratch of the flimsy hospital gown against his skin, instead replaced by a clean shirt Sam brought him that morning, along with the only pair of sweatpants he owned, torn and ragged at the edges. Before Bobby wheeled him out of the room, Dean managed to tuck the empty gap in his pant leg just barely underneath his thigh, the absence too foreign, still too fresh to dwell on.

“Was startin’ to think they’d never let you leave,” Bobby said, his voice gruff at Dean’s back. “Nurses kept givin’ me the eye every time I walked in there.”

“’S ‘cause you kept trying to sneak in food,” Dean joshed.

Head tilted back, he watched Bobby’s eyes narrow, shadowed by his ball cap. Outside of the fluorescent lights, Bobby looked even worse, dark circles painted under his eyes, lips pulled into a perpetual frown; he hadn’t shaved in awhile, either, gray hair coarse across his chin and jaw, down to his neck. Dean probably didn’t look any better. He didn’t have the courage to look at himself in the mirror before they left, didn’t want to see how haunted he knew he looked, trauma probably etched into his soul.

Bobby didn’t say anything, just continued to rub his shoulder in absent patterns. It was the most human contact Dean had had in days, aside from Charlie hugging him every time she entered the room and Sam’s few attempts at comfort via back pats and mussing up his hair. _Better than nothing_ , he figured; at least he had friends close by and he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere, far away from any attempt to save him. They had only been a few miles from town during the incident, close enough to the Impala to make their escape and to the hospital before he seized in the backseat.

Dean shuddered—just what Sam needed, to bury his brother in some nondescript field in Kansas, all at twenty two years old.

“You sure you’re okay?” Bobby asked and pushed Dean’s head back upright, not nearly hard enough to concern him. “Sam said you were pretty bad off back there.”

“‘M fine,” Dean garbled through a yawn. First thing he planned to do once they reached Sioux Falls was take a nap. Probably after a proper shower. “It’s just… A lot to deal with.”

Bobby grunted in affirmation, both hands gripping the wheelchair handles. “You sure that Angel stuff wasn’t you high on morphine?” he ventured, continuing, “Still ain’t forgot that time you called me stoned off your ass. Said you saw fairies, or some shit.”

“Never gonna let me live that down, are you?” Dean groaned, covering his eyes. “As I remember, you got a kick outta it.”

Bobby snorted. “Lucky I didn’t tell your daddy.”

“Doubt he’d’ve said anything, anyway,” Dean said, curt. Not that John had been there in the first place to care about what Dean did—and who, as well. Bobby tattling on him would have just rolled off John’s back, an afterthought for when he needed something to justify his rage. Dean fisted his sweatpants in reflex, smoothing out the fabric after. “God, did Sam park across town?”

“The lot’s full today,” Bobby said, glancing toward the parking deck. “Saturday, everyone’s visiting. Speaking of, that nurse lady—”

“Billie.”

“—She give you anythin’ for your therapy?”

Right, the papers. Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded square, handing it off to Bobby. “Basic stuff. Think I can get most of it done on my own.”

“That may be,” Bobby said, pocketing the paper, “But ain’t neither of us gonna let you off the hook that easy. You’re gonna need help, boy, ’n we ain’t about to watch you fall on your face every time you try to get up.”

Dean chuckled despite the pang in his heart. “You guys don’t need to wait on me. Can do it on my own.”

Bobby patted his shoulder again, just in time for Sam to wheel the Impala into the drop off lane. “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

-+-+-+-

Three places ranked at the top of Dean’s “Places I’ll Never Sleep Again” list: the back of Dustin’s semi outside of Laredo, under a bridge during a stakeout near Tacoma, and the twenty-year-old mattress in Charlotte’s basement after her father threatened to take out his anger with a bat. Granted, the latter was more out of desire than necessity. The backseat of the Impala—his own child—was quickly climbing to the top spot, though, as evidenced by the spasm that startled him awake ten minutes from their destination.

Bobby peered over the bench at him, concern knitting his brow. “Somethin’ get you?” he asked, deadpan. Still, Dean heard the humor there over the roar of the engine, the world flowing back into focus creak by creak.

“Think ‘m gonna need a chiropractor,” Dean groaned and pushed himself upright, just enough for him to lean his head onto the side window. Outside, wheat rose in the fields on either side of the two lane, bathing the landscape in sepia. Five hours in the car was too much, especially sprawled out on the backseat. It was still bloody, he noticed belatedly, the evidence not yet cleaned off the leather, and probably stained as well, forever burned into both his memory and the Impala’s, at least until he could get around to scrubbing her down.

 _One day_ , he told himself, sighing through his nose. One day, he would get back out there and fix her right, take out the last of the dings he hadn’t popped and wash her until she shined.

Five minutes off I-29, beyond a field and a couple thousand square feet of scrap, sat Singer Salvage, the name placard somehow still able to hold onto the overhead arch despite years of rust and storms that always managed to rip the shingles off the top of Bobby’s roof, no matter how many times Dean nailed them back up there himself. Dust kicked up behind the Impala’s wheels as Sam steered them down the dirt driveway, parking next to a rotted out Studebaker and the front end of a Volkswagen bus. Not once in the last ten years had Bobby ever touched them, and neither had anyone come to salvage parts from their rusted hulls. Maybe one day he would sell them off—or watch them burn in a spontaneous fire, either one.

Dean gathered his bearings while Sam and Bobby exited via the front doors, Sam opening the back passenger door for him and Bobby going to pull Dean’s wheelchair from the trunk. It was freshly cleaned out, Dean noted almost six hours earlier, completely devoid of his entire arsenal, and even the bags of rock salt he kept stashed in the spare tire hold.

 _Normal_. Dean swallowed his pride and accepted it, at least for now. The least he could do was put on a brave face until he got back on his feet and shoved Sam into the passenger seat. If he was ever allowed to drive again; whatever the answer, he pushed it away, concentrating more on worming his way out of his own car.

“Ain’t been back here in months,” Dean said once Sam wheeled him into Bobby’s home, air conditioner apparently shut off during the few days Bobby wasn’t there, the heat almost stifling.

Still the way he remembered it, with wood paneled walls and blanket-draped furniture, dust decorating the library shelves on the other end of the living area. Stacks of books were scattered across Bobby’s desk, all the spines unidentifiable at a distance. Cedar and smoke hung heavy in the air, probably from the neighbor’s burn pile a mile down the road, seeping in through an upstairs window.

Speaking of. “We gotta set you up a room on this floor,” Bobby started; instead of heading to the guest room, Dean watched him disappear into the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening seconds later. Beer sounded nice. _Anything_ sounded nice, as long as it didn’t come from a hospital.

Sam didn’t join Bobby, simply walked over to the couch and collapsed on an aging cushion, the air whooshing out of it. Dean laughed under his breath and, hands to the wheel bars, rolled past the couch and into the library, parking himself next to the desk. If anything, he had his wheelchair; a thrift market find from years ago, when Sam was gone and Dean hoarded medical equipment in the basement, in anticipation of one of them being injured for a while.

But never did he expect this. Long term, and for himself, no less. Above, the air conditioner roared to life, pumping in cold air and drying the sweat beading at Dean’s hairline. “What was he looking up before you drove up here?” Dean asked, mostly to himself.

From the other side of the room, Sam stood and treaded the carpet, stopping in front of a stack of manuscripts to the left of him. “Don’t know,” Sam muttered, brushing the accumulating dust off the leather bound books. “Something about—”

“Angels,” Bobby announced at their back. Dean jerked and glanced over his shoulder; Sam barely budged, too distracted to care. “Ironically for you two, someone reported a couple miracles in Texas last month. Woman claimed her daughter was cured of malignant leukemia, and a man on the other end of the state said a man just up ’n walked into the ocean and saved ten people caught in a rip current.”

Sam stared, brow cocked. “…And you figure Angels?”

“You got any better ideas?”

Admittedly, Dean didn’t. The rip current could be explained, but not the cancer. “Did you find anything, at least?” Dean ventured, pulling a notebook off the top of one of the stacks. Inside were nothing but scribbles and unintelligible symbols, all detailed with a script he never recalled seeing. “…Like Rosetta Stone?”

“It’s Enochian,” Bobby mentioned, tapping an even smaller book near Dean’s elbow as he sat behind the desk. “Angel language. Gotta admit, you’re runnin’ up shit creek if you wanna find anything definitive. Most I’ve found is basic stuff and whatever the Bible mentions. Miracles definitely ain’t outta their league.”

“But why now?” Sam rummaged through one of the piles, coming up with a thick hardback decorated in sigils and claw marks. “And why some hospital in Kansas?”

“Maybe it’s bored,” Bobby shrugged. “Or it’s atoning for something. Least it’s not going around murdering people in cold blood.” He looked between both Sam and Dean, eventually settling on Dean as he thumbed through the deteriorating dictionary in hand. “Figure, a few miracles ain’t gonna kill anyone.”

 _But are they really helping_? Dean wondered, eyes glued to the scrawled letters, the sloping curves and harsh lines that formed an archaic alphabet.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the budding silence. “…You sure this is what you wanna do?” he asked Dean, his expression somewhere between amused and genuinely curious; all it did was make him look smug. “Haul ass hunting down Angels?”

“Better than sittin’ on my ass,” Dead asserted, snapping the book closed. “I know you wanna find out who did this just as much as me.”

From the look on Sam’s face, he didn’t disagree. “Then you better do what Billie told you,” Sam said, stern. “I’d hate to see what you’re like with cabin fever.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Funny, Sammy,” he snarked, pushing away from the desk to roll for the kitchen. “Watch it or I’ll run over your toes.”

If Sam frowned, Dean didn’t care. The refrigerator called to him, along with whatever Bobby had stashed in there that was edible. Lunch would be nice, along with a shower and an actual bed that didn’t have power controls or a panic button.

Food first—then Dean could figure out the rest of his life.


	3. Indiana

_December 13 th, 2006  
Lawrence Memorial Hospital_

“Now you’re just making excuses,” Billie huffed at Dean, her hands on her hips. “You know how to walk just fine.”

“’S not the walking I’m worried about,” Dean shot back. Sweatpants rolled up to his thigh, he slipped a white cotton sock onto his leg, smoothing it free of wrinkles once in place. His prosthetic sat beside his chair, the plastic socket patterned in green and black plaid—his own design, much to Sam’s perpetual annoyance. “Any other color,” Sam had complained the day Dean had signed the order; months later, he still hadn’t let Dean live it down, either.

“You get me outta this chair,” Dean began again, thumbing to Sam across the white walled room, Charlie at his side, clinging tightly to Sam’s arm, “and they’re both gonna start cryin’. And you _know_ how it’s gonna go from there.”

Billie pursed her lips. “Does it really matter if they cry?” she asked, quiet, just between them. “You haven’t even let them in here when we’re training, and it’s been months.”

Dean shrugged, absently rubbing his sock. Billie had only gotten him on his feet within the last four months, the previous time being spent just strengthening his legs and the rest of his body. Admittedly, Dean was in better shape now than he had ever been in his life, thanks to Billie pushing him harder than probably necessary. But he needed the shove, needed a reason to get out of the bed in the morning instead of wasting his life lying on a decade old mattress or sitting by the window reminiscing about when he could have been out in the scrap yard, rummaging for parts for either himself or whoever commissioned Bobby that week.

But he could walk now, without the parallel bars or the walker that Dean insisted they _not_ call a walker, for his own dignity. Sure, he still had a limp, but Billie assured him that once he got used to traveling under his own power, he could walk with a normal gait as long as he kept up his exercises. Keep a steady diet, don’t drastically lose or gain weight, or he would end up back there again, ordering a new prosthetic.

The one thing he paid for with his own cash. If the hospital found out about his scam, that would be the only thing they couldn’t take from him.

“It’s a big deal to him,” Dean sighed, fighting the urge to pull at a loose thread. “He’s been pushin’ me since the minute I got home months ago. Last two weeks, all he’s done is bug me about when he could come here. Figure, last session’s good enough of a time as any.”

“It’s sweet you care about him like that,” Billie offered, a hand to his shoulder. “Makes me wish my brother was that nice about me.”

Dean snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. “Raphie likes you plenty, he’s just too stupid to admit it.”

“Got that right,” Billy laughed. “You remember how to put it on?”

 _Do I remember how to put it on_. Mocking annoyance, Dean pulled the prosthetic towards him, his shoestrings already laced on the foot, a newer pair of Nike’s Charlie got him as an early Christmas present. The cool plastic and metal didn’t bother him much anymore, the limb more of a part of him now than it had been in the beginning. At least it didn’t hurt anymore, sensitivity no longer leaving him hissing with every step. No one would see it unless he wore shorts or had the sudden urge to rip his pants off, and maybe if he ignored it for long enough, he could pretend he was normal, like the incident never happened.

Billie helped keep Dean steady in his seat while he pushed his leg into the socket, waiting until the locks clicked. “Not too loose?” Billie asked; Dean shook his head and bent his knee to illustrate. He still had his knee, thankfully—anything higher, and he would have still been in there struggling to stand.

Unrolling his pant leg and smoothing it down over the socket, Dean glanced up to Sam, his brother already on the verge of tears. “I told you,” he muttered, head bowed. “He’ll cry over anything if you give him the chance.”

“You’re his brother, of course he’s gonna be a big baby,” Billie jeered. “Get on over there, before you get my eyes misty.”

Dean held his breath, exhaling slow. “Moment of truth,” he told himself, and placed his hands on his knees.

Walking hadn’t been the hardest part of his therapy. Once he got the hang of it, staying upright was never an issue. Standing and sitting, however, he still could never get right, mostly out of fear of his limb and what would happen if the prosthetic broke and sent him flat on his face. Not that it would ever happen if he kept up maintenance, but the thought was still there, niggling the back of his brain. One day, he would get used to it. Today, with Billie standing back, Dean put pressure on both of his legs and pushed up, until he was standing on his own feet, breathless and antsy.

And there across the room, Sam and Charlie stood, Charlie with her hands over her mouth and Sam bawling. _Big baby’s right_ , Dean thought with his first step, fighting off the first and only shiver that ran up his leg. After that, he crossed the room with ease, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants. Even then, he couldn’t hold back his own smile, breaking out into a full grin when he stood before Sam and Charlie under his own ability.

Sam hugged him first, nearly lifting him off the ground as he sobbed into Dean’s shoulder, amazed. “It’s not that big of a deal,” Dean deflected, choking back emotion. Charlie adding to the pile didn’t help either, her voice louder than Sam’s as she clung to the both of them.

“Idiot,” Charlie exclaimed, patting his back. “You thought you couldn’t do it.”

“She’s right,” Sam joined in. “’N now I got you back.”

Dean let his head fall forward, forehead pressed to Sam’s shoulder. “Never left,” he sighed, eyes closed against his own tears. Not now—maybe when they left the building, but not now. Not in front of everyone. “I’ve always been here.”

Neither of them let go of Dean for a long few minutes, Charlie’s hand on his wrist while he walked the room under Billie’s supervision, Sam within arm’s reach at all times. Not that they needed to assist him, but Dean appreciated the attention, especially now, now that it didn’t feel like pity.

Idly, Dean strolled with them at his side, keeping mind to push through his limp and straighten himself, managing to walk in a straight line. Months ago, he had to use handrails just to stay upright; pride swelled with each step he took until he shook with elation, twice having to stop to keep himself from laughing.

“You sound like you’re gonna lose it,” Sam mentioned at one point, pleased with himself about something. “Sure you’re alright?”

“‘M fine,” Dean snickered. For once, he was—and he believed it, too.

Billie gave them another few minutes before she called Dean away, a clipboard in one hand. For the first time, she looked just as happy as he was, a smile working its way across her face. “Told you,” she said and reached over to pat his shoulder, gripping him through his shirt. “And here you thought you weren’t gonna make it.”

Dean huffed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I should thank you.”

“You ain’t gotta thank me,” Billie confided, “It’s my job. But next time I catch myself in a bind, you _owe_ me, Winchester.” She squeezed his shoulder once again, just on the edge of pain. “Believe me. I never go back on my word.”

Something about Billie struck fear in Dean’s heart, just temporarily—like she actually planned to get herself in trouble just to see him again. Part of him figured she would; hopefully she wouldn’t end up maiming herself in the process.

“You’ll need to check out at the front desk,” Billie told him, handing off the clipboard, along with a Bic that had seen better days. “You know the way, right?”

“Sure do,” Dean answered, apprehensive; the newly formed nerves coursing through him didn’t help to keep his pulse calm, heart jumping in his chest. He was _leaving_ —for the first time, he was leaving with no intention of coming back, unless under duress or to get adjustments.

For the first time in half a year, he had no set schedule. No more sleeping in the dusty guest room, no more waking up to the sun in his face, no more Sam driving him to and from the hospital every week. Nothing but his own freedom and the open road, nothing in his way.

And it _terrified_ him.

Billie brought him into an embrace before he could gather himself, rubbing between his shoulder blades. Dean melted into it and returned the gesture, his face buried in her neck; her hair smelled of sandalwood and olives. “You’ll do fine, Dean,” she whispered close. If only he could believe it. “You’re stronger than a lot of guys I see in here. I ain’t never seen you cry once.”

“Give me five minutes,” Dean chuckled.

With reluctance, he pulled away and bid her goodbye, now joining Sam and Charlie by the door, Charlie still with tears in her eyes. She fanned her face once in the hall, barely even trying to keep her composure. Sam wasn’t faring much better, every few seconds wiping his eyes dry. “I can’t believe I’m gonna have to say bye to you again,” Charlie choked, dragging Dean into his second hug in the last five minutes, practically climbing him just to kiss his forehead. “You better drag your butt back here, and _this_ time in one piece. I don’t think I could take another one of you on death’s door.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Yeah, I think we’re done with that for a while.”

“Better be,” Dean groaned, Charlie’s grip on his neck crushing. “Charlie, you’re kinda choking me—”

“You deserve it,” Charlie shot back. She pulled away with a smirk, her eyes still bloodshot. “You go turn that in. Me and Sam’ll pull the car around.”

Dean watched them leave down the corridor, Charlie with a sway in her step, Sam still trying to wipe his face clean. It figured Sam would be the emotional one of the three of them; despite everything they had been through over the years, Sam was still empathetic towards everything and everyone they met. Mostly with animals, but Dean came in a near close second. At least, Dean hoped he did.

A few doors down nearest the exit hall, the reception desk sat, currently occupied by a woman he wasn’t familiar with, raven curls caressing her shoulders and draped down her back, an old pen cap between her lips as she wrote something unintelligible on a blank sheet of paper. She looked up at Dean with navy eyes, the cap clattering to the tabletop before her, apparently awestruck.

Dean cocked a brow and straightened himself, handing over the clipboard. “Ms. Harlow said you’d want this,” he mentioned, glancing over the woman’s shoulder. “Where’s Loraine?”

The woman shrugged, eyes fighting to stay wide. “Mrs. Albertson’s on break at the moment, she asked me to cover for her.” Reaching out, she took Dean’s clipboard and rolled her chair back, placing the forms on a dwindling stack of papers on a nearby desk. “Is there anything else you wanted? You’re aware of your post-rehabilitation exercises, correct?”

Dean nodded. The longer he watched her, the more his hands trembled, something about her _familiar_ , a persistent itch gnawing at the back of his neck. In his few months there, Dean had never once seen Loraine leave the reception area, the nurse one of the friendliest people he had met, always curious as to how he was faring, how far he was progressing in his sessions, how Sam was doing. Now, she was gone, replaced with a woman that could very well have been her daughter: same hair, same tone, same eyes.

 _Eyes_.

Swallowing down his budding anxiety, Dean cracked a grin, however pained it was. “Pretty sure I got it,” he said, nearing calm.

The woman smiled regardless, covering the papers strewn about her desk with both hands. “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she remarked, genuinely curious as she looked him over. “You’re heading to Chicago, right?”

He blinked. “…Who told you that?”

Never once did the woman seem perturbed, Dean’s confusion making her bolder; she leaned over the desk, arms crossed atop the white granite. “My mistake,” she lied; Dean sucked in a breath as she stood, both of her hands cupping his cheeks, that familiar warmth bleeding in again. “Find me, Dean.”

And she was gone, leaving him to lean into nothing in the middle of an empty hallway. No one ventured near immediately, his rapid heartbeat his only company, at least until Billie walked down the corridor with a stack of pillows in her arms; she stopped at the sight of him, at the wariness in his eyes and the faint tremor in his hands, currently fisted into his pant legs. “Now, I know this place ain’t haunted, and I know ghosts don’t freak you out,” Billie said, cautious. “…Was he here?”

Dean glanced to the desk just briefly, enough to give Billie confirmation. “…Guess he wanted to give me a head start,” he murmured, closed his eyes. “I gotta go meet up with Sam.”

“Be safe,” Billie offered and patted his cheek, thumbing under his eye. “You get gone, now. Sam’s waiting.”

 _And so is Castiel_.

With a parting embrace, Dean left the hospital, the late morning sun greeting him only long enough to be shrouded by a layer of clouds moving in. The forecasts called for snow in the coming hours, accumulation beginning around three that afternoon; the sooner they left, the better, before they were stuck in traffic heading east. Sam had already parked the Impala in the loading zone, Charlie leaning into the passenger window with one foot tapping the concrete, both oblivious to his approach.

Charlie squealed when Dean clapped her shoulder, nearly smacking her head on the lip of the window. “Don’t _do that_ ,” she snapped, slapping his forearm; Dean grinned and hugged her, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. “Seriously, you’re crushing my lungs—”

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Pulling away, Dean mussed her hair a bit, earning a halfhearted scowl. “I promise I’ll call, you hear me?”

“You better,” Charlie joshed, tapping his nose. “Or else I’m calling Bobby and telling him about—”

Dean clasped a hand over Charlie’s mouth. Charlie licked his palm in retaliation. “I told you that in _confidence_ —”

“Then you _better_ call,” Charlie laughed. “Minute you get to a motel tonight, catch me up. I wanna hear all about you and this mysterious _Castiel_.”

“Can do,” Dean answered with a smirk. He kissed her forehead and, pulling the Impala’s passenger door open, slid inside. Sam sat behind the wheel with both hands in his lap, glancing between Dean and Charlie, his eyes still wet; for all Dean knew, he hadn’t stopped crying since the moment he and Charlie left the building.

Charlie leaned her head through the window as soon as Dean seated himself, already rolling up the leg of his pants to begin removing the prosthetic. “You two be good,” she said, mostly to Dean. “The next time you two come in here, I expect you to have all your limbs.”

“Can’t make any promises,” Dean snickered, smacking the plastic socket.

“We’ll at least _try_ ,” Sam said, his eye roll almost auditory. “I think hunting’s done for a while.”

It still hurt for Dean to admit it, that everything he previously lived for was off the table, presumably for the rest of his life. Maybe this was a good thing; without being toted around by John and nothing on their immediate plate, maybe they could finally, _finally_ , be at peace with themselves and leave the life behind. Fat chance, but it sounded good in theory. _One step at a time,_ Dean told himself and waved goodbye to Charlie, Sam following suit.

He would see her again, Dean decided, cranking the passenger window up against the bitter sting of early winter. He would see _everyone_ again, if he could help it.

-+-+-+-

_Montrose, Illinois  
9:38 PM_

By Winchester standards, the Red Carpet Inn wasn’t exactly the worst place they ever stayed at. Basic amenities: two full beds, a functioning shower and toilet, a television that only got ten channels, a coffee maker on the desk, and fancy stationary on the bedside table next to a phone that was about twenty years in need of being replaced. Even the bedspreads were decent, soft without the scratch from years of use, and pillows that were at most a year old.

For forty-five bucks a night, Dean could get used to this. Out of habit, he dropped his bag by the bed nearest the door and let himself fall onto the mattress, the sheets whooshing underneath him. No springs jamming into his spine, no scent of mothballs, nothing but cotton and low thread count sheets. “Think they’re under new management?” Dean asked to the empty air and rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the red and off-white comforter and covering his eyes with his arm.

Sam threw something at his head, most likely one of the pillows they stole from Bobby’s. They had opted to stuff the trunk with clothes—actual _clothes_ —and forewent the bags of rock salt and every knife design under the sun, their removal almost sacrilege in Dean’s book. But it had to be done, step one of decluttering and blending into society: getting rid of everything that could draw the attention of the authorities for whatever reason. They still kept a pair of pistols and Dean’s sawed off in the spare tire well, but aside from that, they were civilians now.

They were _normal_ —and it made Dean’s skin crawl.

“You wanna shower first?” Sam asked after a while, rousing Dean from his not-quite-nap.

Dean waved him off and roll over towards the window, waiting until Sam disappeared behind the bathroom door before he made any attempt to wake up, at least enough to be functional. Sleeping sounded like the best idea in the world, especially after the seven hour drive into Illinois, on their way to a suburb outside of Chicago to interview a man saved from an accidental fall off the top of a wind turbine, a fall that would have otherwise left a dent in the earth and nothing more. The man claimed he saw a bright flash before he hit the earth and found himself standing next to the visage of his long-dead brother, only to have him disappear as soon as he was safe.

It sounded like something out of the tabloids next to Bat Boy and “I Was Abducted by Elvis,” but he and Sam still followed the lead, hoping it would take them somewhere closer to Castiel, rather than a hallucination or an extremely vivid dream. He would take anything if it meant getting closer to his end goal.

The shower in the other room rattled to life just as Dean pushed himself upright, rolling up his pant leg and pulling off the prosthetic, freely bending his knee freely in the air. Almost no pain aside from a general ache to his bones, most likely from the cold outside, already dipping into the thirties and lower. “’S what I gotta look forward to,” Dean mumbled to himself, rubbing his stump over his sock, “weather pain.”

They really should have left during the summer, given him some time to recuperate before embarking on a cross country trek. At least then, he could have drowned himself in painkillers waiting for warmer weather to come instead of wanting to burrow under a heated blanket just to escape the cold.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, startling him from his ministrations. _Charlie_. He was supposed to text Charlie when they got into town, not after the fact when he was ready to clock out for the night, or until the nightmares woke him at four, like clockwork for the last month. Charlie’s named flashed across the screen when he flipped his cell phone open, several frowning emoticons typed as the first message.

“Perfect,” Dean muttered under his breath. Falling back, Dean held his phone above his head, squinting in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

> Charlie: i know you’re not asleep >:(  
< Dean: trying to  
> Charlie: >:(  
> Charlie: did you at least park first?  
< Dean: sam drove the whole way  
< Dean: he’s gonna run into something one day  
> Charlie: he’ll do fine  
> Charlie: how are you holding up?

Dean inhaled and let out a slow breath, his body loosening the longer he laid there, eyes blurry.

< Dean: tired  
< Dean: bones hurt  
> Charlie: double up on socks :(  
< Dean: waiting for sam to get done. might pass out before then  
> Charlie: where are you guys?

Outside, the blinding neon of the Red Carpet Inn’s signage poured through the blinds, dyeing the air conditioning unit a combination of navy and scarlet, yellow occasionally blinking on and off. Dean typed the motel’s name and sent the message, letting his phone fall to the bedspread. Another five minutes, and he would fall asleep if Sam didn’t wake him; consciousness was already barely at arm’s length, fading in and out with the twinkling sign and the dull roar of two-lane.

He almost missed Charlie’s following text, the abrupt shut off of the shower rattling the pipes.

> Charlie: after you find him, what are you gonna do?

That was the question Dean had been avoiding since the thought popped in his head months ago—what _would_ he do? Without hunting as his fall back, without any recognizable skills aside from questionable arms knowledge and more survival skills than that guy on television that slept in the woods for a living, without any legitimate occupational knowledge to his name, what was he supposed to do?

Sam had always been his first priority, but Sam wasn’t meant to be a hunter, too soft, too much free will to contain to a single car. Sam had the world in his hands, and for once, Dean wouldn’t let himself get in the way of his happiness. But for now, he needed Sam to ground him, keep him from driving off into the sunset on a bad leg and a prayer.

After everything was said and done, maybe they could make their way out to California and stay.

< Dean: i don’t know

Sam reentered the room with a towel around his waist, just as Dean shut off his phone and buried his face in the crook of his arm. “Charlie call you?” Sam asked, conversational, loud enough to keep Dean awake as he rummaged through his duffel, pulling out a pair of pajamas.

“Was mad I forgot to text her,” Dean muffled into his elbow, flexing his other hand on the bedspread, solely to keep himself awake. “Told her where we’re at.”

“Surprised she didn’t try to climb in the car with us,” Sam chuckled. “She was threatening to hide in the trunk.”

“She’d probably fit,” Dean quipped back; Sam threw a pillow at him. “ _Hey_ , she’s tiny.”

“I know for a fact you can fit in there too,” Sam said; part of John’s training involved breaking out of the trunk of cars, and more than a few times, he had shoved Dean in the back, supposedly to teach him how to escape. None of his attempts ever ended successfully. “Think she’s gonna miss us?”

“Totally.” Sitting up, Dean rubbed his face and shifted to the edge of the bed, letting his legs dangle over. He untied his shoe while Sam took his clothes to the bathroom, coming back dressed, towel thrown to the floor. “Surprised she’s not asking me to send her postcards.”

“We could do that,” Sam offered. “The postcards, I mean. We’ve never had anyone to send them to before.”

Dean laughed, hollow, and pushed his shoe under the bed, along with his prosthetic. “You bring Liz in?”

From his bed, Sam visibly rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t’ve come up with anything better than that?”

Dean pointed a finger. “You break somethin’, you name your own chair. Liz never did anything to you.”

Sam ignored him in favor of gathering up Dean’s wheelchair from behind the front door, unfolding it. Rolled over, Dean slid from the bed into his chair, the familiar creak of the worn leather comforting. Sam, relieved of his duties for the night, collapsed onto his bed and fiddled with the television remote while Dean rolled around the room, pulling a pair of pajamas from his duffel and folding them in his lap. “If I ain’t out in thirty minutes—”

“I’ll drag you out, I know,” Sam waved him off. “Tub’s nice. Didn’t find any mold.”

Dean grinned. “Just what I wanna hear.”

-+-+-+-

“We’re a couple miles outside Indianapolis,” Sam said from the table across the room, breaking Dean from a dead sleep, the sun immediately greeting him by blinding his eyes.

Morning. For once, he actually slept through the night without interruption, dreams scarcely a memory in the back of his mind. Maybe the nightmares had been because of Bobby’s house, after all; who knew what various species of mold were growing in the walls, especially in the downstairs bedrooms, or how many of the past owners died on the property. Or, from whatever Bobby kept in the basement—six months of living there, and he still wouldn’t tell Dean or Sam what he was building down there.

“You’re sure?” Sam spoke up again, the faint noise of a response crackling through the silence. “We can be there in two hours, can you meet us at Marian?” Another answer. “Alright, we’ll meet you there, Mrs. Dwyer.”

Dean turned over to escape the sun, covering his head with his pillow. “Hope you’re not arranging a deal,” Dean said, smacking the headboard. “Where’re you draggin’ me at the asscrack of dawn?”

“Got a lead,” Sam mentioned.

Dean blinked and sat up, pillow falling to the opposite side of the bed. “What kinda lead?” he asked and turned to the window, afterwards regretting his decision. Who opened the blinds, anyway?

“I saw an ad online after I woke up.” With a yawn, Sam walked his laptop over to Dean and handed it off, the screen pulled up to a news article on the Indianapolis Star’s website. “This woman, Martina Dwyer, her daughter was hit by two cars, one a drunk driver, the other on accident. She was in a coma for three months, and the doctors were about to take her off life support when she woke up.”

“Three months?” Dean scrolled down the browser, his eyes still blurry from sleep. “…You’re gonna have to read this to me.”

“Figured you’d wanna be awake for this,” Sam laughed. “There’s a McDonald’s a few blocks down, you want anything?”

“Coffee.” Dean set the laptop to the side and palmed his eyes, matching Sam’s previous yawn. “Sausage egg biscuit. Got some cash in my wallet.”

Dean waited until Sam left the room before he burrowed back under the blankets, taking Sam’s laptop with him. The words still didn’t make sense, no matter how long he lay there staring at the display—then again, an act of God wouldn’t have pinged on his radar until recently, most of those stories reserved for inspirational chainmail and entries on internet blogs, and sometimes even videos of people claiming to have seen Angels marching them to the Gates right before doctors brought them back to life.

Doctors considered such events as the ways of man. Religion dictated differently, claiming God had a plan, that all lives were sacred. What that meant for Dean, he still didn’t know. But based on Castiel’s words, that it hadn’t been Dean’s time to die, maybe his life had some meaning after all.

“Right,” Dean laughed, hollow, clicking the laptop shut. “Believe that when I see it.”

The faint buzz of the heating unit lulled Dean into a partial sleep, enough for his body to go lax in the interim, the warmth outside somehow managing to wind its way through the room and warm his toes. At least until Sam returned fifteen minutes later, none too quietly opening the door and slamming it closed; Dean moaned and covered his face.

“No excuse now,” Sam laughed; yanking the sheets away from Dean’s head, he shoved a brown paper bag by his head and placed his coffee on the bedside desk. Dean thanked him with a short grunt and sat up, rifling for his breakfast. “You find anything, or did you sleep the whole time?”

“Ha ha, bite me,” Dean mumbled through a bite of biscuit. Not the best in the world, but it would do for now. “You really think this Dwyer lady’s gonna know something?”

“Couldn’t hurt to ask,” Sam shrugged from his bed, tearing open the wrapper to a chicken biscuit. “Anything that gets us closer to Castiel is better than nothing, right?”

Dean nodded, chest deflating with his sigh. They ate in silence for a while, Dean working himself to full consciousness while Sam watched the local news between the fuzz, the meteorologists saying something about snow later in the day. The front followed them from Kansas; Dean knew they should have driven west instead.

“I was thinking,” Sam said after they were done, Dean busy shoving his trash into the bag along with the empty coffee cup. “When you find him, what’re you gonna do?”

 _Really should’ve thought this whole thing through_ , Dean told himself. “Don’t really know,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Right now, I just wanna figure out why, y’know? Why _me_ , outta everyone else that came in that day. What makes me special?”

“Did he say anything to you?” Sam continued. “Beyond the whole, ‘I’m an Angel’ thing.”

Rubbing his neck, Dean looked to the window, a few snowflakes beginning to dot the roof of the Impala, melting immediately after. “What I told you before. Walked in, gave me this whole speech about not letting me die. Never once told me why.”

Sam humphed. “Maybe that’s something you have to find out yourself.”

“He said that too.” Dean squinted beyond the glass and turned to Sam, thumbing to the parking lot. “You sure we need to be goin’ out in this?”

“Think they’re more used to the snow up here than us,” Sam snorted. “You gonna walk today? Or do we need to put spikes on your shoe?”

Dean turned back to the asphalt, the ground still mostly dry, but probably not for long if the weatherman’s predictions held true. Walking in snow—even debris and swamp water—had never been an issue for him in the past, but this was new, uncharted territory. Could he even walk in snow, let along on some unfamiliar college campus? Could he _run_ if need be? “We’ll take Liz,” Dean decided, wringing his hands in his lap. “Ain’t gonna break my face on the first day.”

Sam snorted and, taking his laptop from Dean’s hip, fell back onto his mattress. “Probably the smart choice,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours. We still gotta get into town.”

 _Great_ —now his own brother was putting him on a deadline. “Smug isn’t a good look on you,” Dean snipped, throwing his extra pillow across the room and missing Sam by inches. “You better be right about this.”

“When am I not?” Sam shot back, still laughing when Dean launched his other pillow, this time landing a blow to his face.

Dean smirked. “Keep laughing and I’ll go for my shoe.”

-+-+-+-

Thankfully for Dean, the snow managed to hold off fully for a few more hours, giving him and Sam enough time to drive to Marian University, two hours northeast of their motel. It must look different in the summer, Dean figured, the lush green of the courtyard outside of the university library now dead and crackling under his wheels, the rooftops of the campus buildings wet and ready for accumulation. Hopefully, they could make it back to the car before the bottom fell out; the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the Impala in a blizzard.

Waiting alongside Sam on a bench, Dean pulled the blanket closer over his legs and tucked it under his thighs, willing off the cold, at least for a while. The least they could have done was waited inside; if only the school wasn’t on winter break, then maybe they could avoid frostbite indoors instead of waiting for the rest of his limbs to fall off. Sam didn’t seem perturbed by it, swinging his legs back and forth under the bench while he fiddled with something on his phone, humming under his breath. If only Dean had skin that thick; even his new coat proved too cold, the leather rustling with every movement.

“Better show up,” Dean muttered, fisting the navy blanket, afterwards slipping his hands under his thighs. “‘M not havin’ something else freeze off ‘cause someone catfished you.”

“They didn’t—what?” Sam quirked a brow; Dean just rolled his eyes and watched the parking lot. “Even if she doesn’t show up, it’s nice to get out of the car once in awhile.” Sam wasn’t lying there, but generally, Dean’s idea of a relaxing outdoor stroll didn’t involve sitting in near-freezing temperatures. “And Bobby’s porch doesn’t count as getting outside.”

“Least I wasn’t freezin’ my balls off out there,” Dean groaned. “Least we could’ve done was stay in the car.”

“I told her we’d be on a bench,” Sam said. “Plus, easier to already be outside than to get you out of the car.”

Sam had a point, much to Dean’s dismay. Wiggling his toes in his shoe, Dean let out a warm breath, something in his chest aching. Another few minutes passed before a red Pontiac Montana pulled into the parking lot, parked two spots away from the Impala. Clearing his throat, Sam stood and brushed a dusting of snow off his jacket arms while Dean sat up straighter, the sight of two women rousing him from his thoughts. “That her?” Dean asked, watching as a woman and her daughter exited the front seats of the minivan, slamming the doors shut behind them.

Sam nodded, waving them over. “Whatever you do, don’t—”

“—Mention the Angel,” Dean finished. “Got it. What kinda ruse you got for her?”

Sam balked at him. “…We’re _us_ today, Dean. No fake names, no FBI badges, nothing. Figured you wanted it that way, remember?”

With clenched fists, Dean nodded. It would take a while for muscle memory to fade, he figured; even mentally knowing the reason they were there, his body said different, adrenaline spiking just enough to keep him on edge, just in the instance their lead turned south and he was left with no place to run but away. But there was nothing there, just two women in a similar situation to him, uncaring of their savior as long as they had each other. And there was Dean, chasing the source with an unwavering mission, to find out _why_. Why he was allowed to live and breathe again, why he was so special?  

One day, he would accept it; for now, he settled for smoothing out his blanket and watching Sam leave and return to the bench with Mrs. Dwyer and her daughter at his side. The girl couldn’t have been more than Sam’s age, her red hair cut short and swept off to one side, with startlingly green eyes and a bright array of freckles covering her entire face. “My names Martina,” Mrs. Dwyer cut in, extending her hand to Dean; Dean shook it with both of his own, offering a hopefully genuine smile. “And this is Raelyn.”

Raelyn, without preamble, threw her arms around Dean’s neck and hugged him tight, nearly falling into his lap with the force of it. Over her shoulder, Dean spotted both Sam and Mrs. Dwyer smothering their laughter; at least Raelyn smelled nice, some mixture of peaches and sugar that warmed him in spite of the weather. “’M glad you’re okay,” he said close to her ear, embracing her back long enough to hear her giggle.

“I could say the same to you,” Raelyn replied as she pulled away. “Your brother told me about your leg.”

Dean snorted and looked over to Sam, his brother attempting to hide his face behind his hand. “Went ahead and blabbed, didn’t you, Sammy?”

“It just means we’re all the same,” Mrs. Dwyer offered with a grin.

She motioned to both Sam and Raelyn to sit, Sam on the edge while Dean rolled himself closer to Mrs. Dwyer, now facing both his brother and Raelyn. Compared to their other interviews, this felt different; calmer, mostly, without the threat of danger looming over their heads at every second. His heart didn’t race, his stomach didn’t churn as the body count ticked on, his fingers didn’t tremble the longer they sat there merely waiting for certain death. It was nice, for once, to be able to sit there and _listen_ , rather than interrogate and console.

“It happened about two years ago,” Raelyn started, answering whatever Sam asked her in the interim. Dean sat up straighter. “A couple of my friends took me out for dinner one night, and the last thing I remember was Chris getting the check. Sure, there were flashes here or there, but… Nothing really substantial.” She paused, wrung her hands in her lap. “Then he came.”

“Who?” Sam asked before Dean could even open his mouth.

Raelyn shrugged. “He was tall, with dark hair? Had these pretty blue eyes, I’d never forget those. He showed up in a dream and told me I could wake up.” She turned to her mother, a smile spreading across her face. “And then I opened my eyes and saw my mom.”

“Doctors said it was a miracle,” Mrs. Dwyer said, choked. “Told me she’d never wake up again, but I never gave up hope. Then this man came in, just like Rae described her. Wasn’t he a nice looking man, Rae?”

Raelyn covered her face. Sam snorted. Dean listened on, enrapt. “ _Mom_.”

“Anyway, he told me she’d wake up soon, and kinda put his hand on her forehead like…” Mrs. Dwyer demonstrated with Dean, placing two fingers to his temple and letting them rest there for probably longer than necessary. “Like that. Then an hour later,” Mrs. Dwyer stopped, a hand over her mouth, “I had my baby back. Don’t know why or how, but she came _back_ to me.”

Raelyn, without even being prompted, jumped up from the bench and threw herself into her mother’s arms, overjoyed. Meanwhile, Dean glanced over to Sam, ignoring Sam’s teary gaze in favor of nodding; Sam took the hint and cleared his throat, reminding the pair of his presence.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Dwyer said, wiping her eyes; Raelyn pulled away and walked back to the bench, sitting with her hands in her lap. “Look, I don’t expect you boys to believe us, but we’re not the most Christian folk in this town. Pretty far from it, actually.”

“Atheist?” Dean ventured.

“She is. Myself… It’s complicated,” Mrs. Dwyer laughed. “But what we both saw, it sounds like Rae’s got an Angel looking out for her.”

“Can I be totally honest?” Both Mrs. Dwyer and Raelyn nodded to Sam’s question, Sam exchanging glances between both of them. “…We don’t think you’re crazy. Neither of you. Dean—”

After that, Dean tuned Sam out, more interested in a particular stitch in the blanket than whatever Sam was saying. He already lived through the event once; he didn’t need to hear it again from someone else who couldn’t even imagine the pain he went through just to get there. It was a miracle he hadn’t drowned himself in pills already, the temptation almost too great as the days passed; anything to help him forget, to ignore the phantom aches and the nerve spasms and the fact he was confined to a chair.

 _You could’ve had it worse_ , his mind supplied, ever helpful. _You could’ve died. Then who would take care of Sammy_?

“Dean?” Sam interrupted, jerking Dean from his stupor. Dean blinked at the three of them, oblivious. “You alright?”

“‘M fine,” Dean grunted, scrubbing his face; his hand came away wet, tears near frozen in the cold. Crying; he was _crying_ and no one had said anything until now. “I’m fine,” he tried again, shaking his head. “Just need some air.”

“Dean—”

But Dean didn’t hear him, just rolled in the opposite direction towards the library. He would explain it later, why ran off, but not now, not while he couldn’t control himself, especially in public surrounded by people. This was a stupid idea; they should have just stayed in South Dakota and Dean could have worked in the scrapyard for the rest of his life until his back gave out. That sounded easier than having to drive across the country in the snow chasing something he didn’t even know was real.

Maybe Castiel was a hallucination. Maybe Mrs. Dwyer and Raelyn didn’t know what they were talking about. Or, maybe they did and Dean couldn’t bring himself to accept that such a thing was real. _Angels_. Something healed him, but it wasn’t that.

Out of earshot across the courtyard, Dean found shade under a large oak and parked himself near the sidewalk, arms pulled tight around himself. He just needed to breathe, needed to gather his bearings and roll himself back without making even more of a scene than he already had. They would understand, right? Barely six months later, and he still couldn't stand it, neither the sight of himself nor the fact that he was _alive_. “Shoulda died,” he told himself, voice on the edge of breaking. “Shoulda just…”

“Just what?” Heart in his throat, Dean turned his eyes to the branches above, a blue-eyed boy staring down at him with long hair covering the majority of his face, one of his front teeth missing. Dean swallowed when he descended to a lower branch, seating himself and hanging his legs over the side. Something about him looked familiar, reminiscent of that one year Sam refused to cut his hair between hunts before John finally took clippers to him in his sleep. In fact—“Do you commonly talk to yourself?”

Dean blinked. “Big words for a kid,” he said, serious. Absently he wiped his face, tears still flowing freely, no matter how hard he tried to keep them at bay. “Where’s your mom?”

“I don’t recall ever having a mom,” the kid shrugged.

Swinging his legs back and forth, he looked down to Dean before pushing himself out of the tree and landing in the pinestraw with a wet crunch, just before Dean’s feet. Here, Dean could make out the pattern on his shirt, a flimsy black jacket covering a bright blue bowling shirt with the name ‘Chris’ stitched on the front in white letters. A memory fell into place at the sight of it, accompanying it the smell of worn leather and a moldy ceiling, dust lining the aluminum clothing racks of a thrift shop outside El Paso on the first day of fall.

Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe the whole thing was a hallucination.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean let out a shuddering breath. “You’re gonna have to give me a minute,” he said, afterwards palming his eyes until he saw stars. Maybe it was a shapeshifter, or someone using his memories against him, because there was no way that _Sam_ circa 1990 was standing in front of him right now, long hair and gangly frame and toothless smile and all. Any other time, and Dean would have fought or at least _tested_ him, but the cold proved too cumbersome, his body too frigid to cooperate with him. “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

“What?” the kid looked at him again, head cocked at an angle, eyes narrowed in thought. “I told you before, I wouldn’t do anything to cause you harm.”

 _Before_. Glancing up, Dean wiped his eyes again before looking at the kid— _really_ looking—those blue eyes staring into his soul like they had the day before, even more vivid in combination with his shirt. “You’re—Why are you here?” Dean stammered, teeth beginning to chatter. “You’re—”

“I could sense your distress,” Castiel said, glancing down to his untied shoes. “You’re scared of something.”

Dean sighed, somewhat shaken, even as Castiel rounded his chair to stand at his side, running a hand through his snow-tipped hair. It felt wrong, somehow; Castiel didn’t fit Sam’s body, didn't control his face in the same manner, or his movements. But their touch remained the same, consoling and genuine, affectionate. If anything, it only saddened him further, his eyes welling again. “’M tired,” Dean admitted, vision blurry through tear-laden lashes. “’M tired, and this is… What if I don’t ever get over it? All I’ve done is think about what you did, and I don’t know why… Would it really’ve been so bad if I died?”

Embarrassment crossed Castiel’s face, his brows lifted, lips parted ever so slightly. “You really don’t see it, do you?” Castiel said, absent. He dropped his hand from Dean’s hair, only to let it rest on his shoulder, fisting the leather of his jacket, still rigid from disuse. “How could you think so little of yourself?”

Dean’s laughter surprised even him, hollow in his chest, almost suffocating. “You’re wearing my brother and you ask _me_ why I’m fucked up? What—Why do you look like that, anyway?”

“I can take any visage I want, mostly to keep you comfortable,” Castiel said. “Your brother keeps you grounded.”

As much as Dean didn’t want to admit it, Castiel was right. “’S just… Thought I was seeing things. Like… Thought I was dreamin’. Kinda wish I was, actually.”

“Are you still hurting?” Castiel stood straighter at his side, something burning behind his eyes, a faint wisp of something Dean could only describe as a pale mist flooding Castiel’s irises, just for a split second.

“Don’t think you can heal bone aches,” Dean muttered, palming his face dry, to no avail. _Stop bothering_. “Look, ‘s just… My line of work, I had one job and one job only, and that was to take care of Sam. Look out for Sam, don’t let Sam hurt himself, take the bullet for Sam. You know how fucked up that is as a kid, to think your only job is to keep your brother from dying? What about me, Cas? I wanted… I coulda done so much, I coulda been somebody.

“And now, I’m stuck in a chair and… What am I supposed to do? My dad’s dead because of me, and now I can’t even do the one thing he told me to do. I didn’t have time for myself before, and now I just…” He stopped, hung his head; again, Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, wiping away the few accumulating snowflakes. “I’m scared, Cas. …I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to know,” were Castiel’s only words, his voice the only solid thing Dean could hold onto. “You’ve been through so much, and now you’re on your own. No one expects you to know how to cope with that, and no one expects you to know exactly what to do in the aftermath. That’s something you’ll have to come to terms with yourself.”

Dean sniffled, anxiously wringing his hands in his lap, fighting to keep any sort of warmth in his fingers. “Never thought I’d ever be here,” he spoke, distant. “What do you… Did you come here just to tell me that?”

To his shock, Castiel shook his head. “I don’t like seeing you upset. I never have.”

 _Wait_. Lifting his eyes, he caught the mournful expression on Castiel’s face, eyes hooded in shame. “Before the hospital… Have we met before?”

“Another day.” Castiel looked over his shoulder, rushed. “Your brother’s coming.”

Before Dean could stop himself, he reached out to grab Castiel’s wrist, his hand fitting entirely around his arm. _God_ , was Sam always that thin? “You can’t go—”

“We’ll meet again,” Castiel amended. With steady hands, he cupped Dean’s face, letting a brief wave of something hot pulse through him, warming him to his toes. Temporary relief, but relief nonetheless. “Soon. You’ll know it when you find me.”

And then Castiel was gone, a flurry of wingbeats signaling his exit, afterwards a rush of snow falling from the branches above his head. In his absence, Dean’s heart raced, confusion and remorse tainting his thoughts the longer he sat there, alone. Sam found him shortly after sitting beneath the tree, jacket pulled tight and hands tucked under his armpits. “They left,” Sam said, low, and stood next to Dean’s chair, furiously rubbing his hands together. “Does any of what they said sound like what happened to you?”

Dean inhaled deep, letting it out through his nose. He could do this; he could talk about that night, at least the parts he previously omitted for Sam’s sanity. “Hand thing wasn’t right,” Dean said, eyes to the pinestraw. “He was kinda… hands on.”

Sam choked. “Oh God, did he—While you were in bed—?”

“God— _No_ , Sam,” Dean spat, covering his face. “No, but… He healed me, if that’s what you’re asking. And that’s what I told you, just… different. Like he knew me, like he…” He swallowed, heart still hammering. “Like he loved me, or somethin’.”

For a long minute, Sam didn’t speak, just looked to the sky with his arms crossed, his every breath exhaling mist. “Maybe it’s an Angel thing,” he ventured after a while, never once turning to Dean. “They’re supposed to love humanity, right? Maybe he just made an exception for you.”

An _exception_. Right, like he was worth that amount of time and effort. “Maybe,” Dean snorted. “You gonna tell me Santa’s real, too?”

Sam frowned. “Dean—”

“Look, I’m just…” Leaning over, Dean rested his head in his hands, let out a shaking sigh. “I’m tired, okay? I’m tired, and I’m freezing, and it’s a lot to deal with. …Don’t think I’m ready for this after all.”

“You don’t have to be,” Sam said, sympathetic, reaching down to pat Dean’s shoulder, the same one Castiel had touched just minutes before. “…We can go back, if you’re not ready—”

“I’m ready,” Dean affirmed with more conviction, his voice still wavering. “I’m ready, believe me. I just… gotta psych myself up.” Fidgeting, he looked to Sam, afterwards shoving his hands under his thighs. “Did you at least get their number?”

“Raelyn gave me hers.” Sam showed Dean his flip phone, a business card tucked between the faces. “And Martina gave me her card.”

Dean nodded and, shaking the cold from his bones, rolled himself onto the sidewalk. “Probably need to apologize to them for runnin’ off,” Dean said, quiet. “Can’t hurt, right?”

Sam agreed. “I’m sure they’d love to talk to you one on one.”

 _Probably_ , Dean figured. Maybe later, when he was warmer and didn’t feel like he was going to shiver himself to death.

-+-+-+-

Falling out of bed hurt more than previously thought, especially when his pain level was already through the roof. Dean fumbled blindly for the dresser in the pitch darkness of the motel room, finding nothing but the face of the bedside table and his shoe, nowhere near where he wanted to be. Somewhere in the room, he kept a stash of prescription pills the doctors gave to him back in June, all for pain relief if he ever needed it.

Now was one of those times. Though, landing on the floor hadn’t been part of the plan; nothing much was at that point, the needles radiating from his joints almost incapacitating. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel anything but vision-blackening pain and overwhelming nausea, his skin overheated to the touch. “Sam,” he attempted, throat parched. Curling in on himself didn’t work, only serving to exacerbate the ache. They never should have gone out in the cold today; he never should have allowed Sam to talk him into sitting outdoors. There were risks involved, frostbite and numbness, joint aches, arthritis. Neither of them had thought this through, especially him.

“Sammy,” Dean wheezed, louder, still reaching for the bedside table; he successfully knocked the phone to the floor in a clatter, nearly taking the lamp down with him.

Sam— _finally_ —woke with the commotion, grumbling his way to consciousness. Meanwhile, Dean bit down on his fist and struggled to right himself, all attempts ending in failure. “You— _Dean_.” And Sam was on the floor with him, gathering Dean into his arms; Dean went without a fight, grappling for Sam’s sleep shirt, his arm, anything he could hold onto and dig his fingers into. It didn’t alleviate the pain, but it helped put the focus elsewhere. “Dean, what’s—”

“Cramp,” Dean muffled into Sam’s shirt, verging on frantic. “Need—get the oxy.”

“Sit up first,” Sam rushed. Maneuvering Dean to lean back proved to be easier than he expected, Sam helping to prop him up against the mattress. Dean reached to grab his leg while Sam searched Dean’s duffel for oxycodone, the resulting twinge leaving him gasping, choking back a gag. Too much—too _real_. “Take these.” Sam shoved two pills into his hand and, bottle left on the floor, rushed to the bathroom sink to fill something. Five seconds maximum—Dean snuck a third pill in the interim and swallowed them dry, chasing them down with the plastic cup of water Sam provided.

Silence, nothing left but Dean’s labored breathing and Sam’s bewildered sputtering. “’S nothing,” Dean slurred, eyes pinched shut. “Doc said it was—residual pain, ‘s normal.”

“Doesn’t look normal,” Sam murmured, his frown almost audible. “Where are the pills from?”

“’M not talkin’ ‘bout it.” Dean turned, nearly collapsing to the floor in the process; Sam kept him upright, tucked him close until Dean could breathe again, could stop wanting to hurl on the carpet. Another few minutes and the medication would kick in and hopefully knock him out for a few hours, at the least; right now, staying in bed was infinitely more preferable to shoving himself back in the car to wherever they planned to hit up next. Colorado, Alabama, he didn’t know, didn’t care. “Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.”

Sam huffed, patted Dean’s arm. “If you’re on something—”

“Christ, Sam.” Sam thwarted his attempt to push away and kept him close, his hold near strangling. Apparently they were _talking_ about this. “’M not on anything. That’s all shit from when I got discharged.”

“Six bottles?” Sam’s hold strengthened, now irate. “You went through your last refill. Where’d you get these?”

“Not gonna talk about it,” Dean reiterated, drowsy. Intermittently, his vision flashed black, his senses dulling to a fixed point: the receding pain in his leg. At least that was gone. “…Just wanna go to bed.”


	4. New Jersey

_December 16th, 2006 **  
** Cape May, New Jersey_

The beach was Sam’s idea, of course; neither of them had really taken the time to stop on either coast, even during the two years Sam spent in San Francisco while Dean rode shotgun or slept on musty mattresses waiting for his father to return, no matter how many calls he made. The Atlantic stretched out across the horizon, endless, while the sea breeze blew in, several degrees colder than the air around him. Dean pulled his jacket closer and breathed it in, let it burn his lungs before he blew out mist.

All the while, Sam stood at his side, both arms crossed with his hood pulled over his head. “You’re crazy, you know that?” Sam accused, startling a laugh out of Dean, hollow in his chest. “This is how people get pneumonia.”

“I’m not gonna get pneumonia,” Dean shot back, his voice trembling with the cold. “Just… Need some air. Been crammed in the car for two days.”

For once, Sam agreed and hung his head, hands fidgeting in his pockets. “Not used to being the one behind the wheel,” Sam shrugged.

Dean nodded, slow. “Least you know how to drive her,” he said and rubbed Sam’s shoulder. Teaching Sam to drive years ago had been like pulling teeth, resulting in several dings and scratches Dean luckily had buffed out every night, out of sight, out of mind. But Sam had taken to it well enough, and Dean had never been prouder, especially now. If it weren’t for Sam, he would still be stuck in South Dakota—or driving himself into a ditch, either one. “Can’t even imagine the cab fare.”

“We’d probably need more credit cards than we have,” Sam laughed under his breath.

Dean listened to the waves lapping the shore, the steady lull drowning out Sam digging his feet into the sand, tracing out aimless circles with his tennis shoes. The chill calmed Dean immensely, tension leaving his bones in waves, every cramp replaced by the pleasant sting of the ocean breeze, his skin singing back to life in increments. By some miracle, he had managed to work three socks onto his leg, significantly cutting off the cold seeping into his jeans, his stump the only warm part of his body.

 _Trial and error_ , Dean told himself, pulling his jacket tighter around him. Some things were common sense. Others, he had to learn the hard way, by falling out of bed and chasing pills with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on.

Speaking of. “How long have you had your meds?” Sam asked, not even attempting to be subtle.

Dean could have ignored him. Could have shrugged Sam off and lied, said they were for emergencies only. But the sheer amount of them, six vials worth, was enough of a red flag for Sam to actually bring it up.

They were living together, stuck in a car for days on end, in motels for even longer. He couldn’t keep the secret forever. “It’s just for the pain,” Dean said, despondent. “I’m not using, Jesus. I just… take more than I need.”

“That’s how people get addicted,” Sam accused. With strong hands, Sam forced Dean to face him, gripping his shoulders tight; Dean winced with the pressure, eyes stinging. “Please tell me you’re not—”

“I’m _not_ ,” Dean shot back, louder than necessary. Sam didn’t back down, only squeezed him tighter over his jacket, leaving nail prints in the leather. “I swear, Sam. I just…” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sometimes I just wanna feel nothing, okay? I just wanna forget that this ever happened, and if I gotta use the damn excuse of me being in pain, then I’m gonna.”

Sam frowned. “Dean—”

Dean cut him off and pulled away, taking all of two steps before he turned back to the ocean, eyes closed to the wind. “I’m fine,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “Really, ‘m fine.”

“It’s been six months,” Sam said after a while, hands again shoved into his pockets. “And Castiel healed you. …Does it really hurt that bad?”

Did it _hurt_. Dean shook his head. Of course it hurt—no amount of Angelic interference could stopped the ache, no matter how much Dean wished it could. “Every day,” Dean said, firm. “…Wake up and it feels like it’s still there. Instead, I got this thing.” Dean lifted his leg for emphasis, the plaid outer shell just visible inside his shoe. “Just… don’t wanna think about it.”

Silence lulled between them again, occasionally the waves breaking through, rhythmic, haunting. After a while, Sam brought him into a hug, tucking Dean’s head under his chin. “Thank you for telling me,” Sam whispered, patting Dean’s back.

Dean huffed a laugh, belatedly gripping Sam’s coat. “Gettin’ too tall,” he said, muffled, earning a slap to his shoulder. “Should stop feedin’ you so much.”

“Then who’s gonna drive your car?” Sam joshed; Dean jabbed him in the ribs. “Jeez—Fine, don’t gotta—”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Dean jeered, pulling back. “I’m still in control of the radio.”

Sam shook his head. “Whatever you say, Dean.”

 

-+-+-+-

Snow began to fall later that evening, leaving Dean to stare helplessly out of their motel room window at the surf while Sam puttered between the television and the kitchenette, trying his hand at cooking something out of a forgotten recipe book left in one of the overhead cabinets. Whatever it was smelled nice, pleasant enough to distract him from the weather, at least for a minute.

“Please tell me you’re not gonna kill me,” Dean announced from the table, wheeling himself over to the sofa. Sam watched him pull himself from his chair onto the couch, snorting when Dean let out a groan. “Second thought, that’d probably be a better idea.”

“When was the last time you actually ate something that wasn’t soaked in three week old grease?” Sam chided, pointing a sauce-laden spoon at him.

 _Good point_. Meals at Bobby’s weren’t exactly the healthiest things in the world, even after Sam’s attempt at an intervention, claiming Dean’s health was at stake if he kept eating like he did. That didn’t stop Bobby from spite-cooking one of the best cheeseburgers of Dean’s life; the resulting heartburn and quarter bottle worth of Tums were worth it, in the end.

“’S long as you’re not gonna force feed me, I’m game,” Dean grunted.

Idly, Dean watched the local news while Sam manned the stove, his brother too busy measuring a package of fettuccine to care about Dean pulling all but one of his socks off, throwing them to the end of the couch. Out of any of the motels they stayed in in the past, Colton Motor Court was definitely worth the sixty-nine dollars a night price tag: an actual bedroom with two beds, a functioning kitchenette, a bathtub he could sleep in if it he wanted, and a television that had more than three channels.

Maybe they needed to stay in beach towns more often, Dean considered, tracing lines into the popcorn ceiling. Always one for brilliant ideas, Sam suggested that they tour the town while waiting for check in, mostly to see the different Victorian homes decorated for Christmas, their porch railings and gutters draped in various colored icicle lights and Santa displays, more festive than Dean could handle.

Christmas was soon, and Dean hadn’t even thought about it.

Shopping yielded nothing but a few refrigerator magnets and postcards, both of which were promptly mailed to South Dakota and Kansas in an envelope, one from Sam and another from Dean. Not Dean’s idea of entertainment, but it kept him out of the room for a few hours; if he had to suffer through the weather just to keep cabin fever away, then so be it.

At some point after they returned to the room and Dean napped in the bedroom, Sam had headed off to the market and bought enough food for two days’ worth of meals. Tomorrow, they were scheduled to meet with a local man and his wife, the Hopewell’s, both of whom had apparently been struggling with infertility for years, until by happy accident, they conceived their first child, a baby girl now two years old. It sounded plausible enough; Dean had heard similar stories over the years, but never before had he considered it a miracle.

But their story had hit the local papers and stayed a top headline for a month, picking up and dropping off again after the birth. How Sam managed to pull up headlines that old, Dean still wasn’t sure.

“Up,” Sam announced and thumped Dean’s forehead. “Food’s on the table.”

Almost in reply, Dean’s stomach growled, loud enough to startle a laugh from Sam. “What’d you make, anyway?” Dean asked, hoisting himself back in his chair while Sam retrieved a spare plate from the kitchen counter filled with garlic bread. Pasta it was, then.

“Chicken alfredo,” Sam stated, pulling up one of the two wooden chairs for himself across the table. “Pretty much the only thing in there that didn’t take a day to cook.”

“Probably a good call,” Dean said, grateful.

They ate in silence aside from the news reports droning on a few feet away, the words fading together after a while; weather reports morphing into presidential primary discussions, and a local story announcing an event at Congress Hall tomorrow night. “We should go to that,” Sam said, breadstick halfway to his mouth with his head turned to the JVC in the media unit. “We’ll probably have time after the interviews. Unless you’re planning to jump town early.”

Dean snorted. “Place like this?” He motioned to the bedroom beyond the hallway and the kitchen. “Think I could stay here forever.”

“I don’t think William Blake is gonna appreciate us living in New Jersey,” Sam retorted. “I have grant money we could use, you know.”

He nearly choked on his chicken. Dean beat his chest and swallowed before managing, “When were you gonna share that with the class?”

“I was planning to bring it up in the hospital, but Charlie came up with the insurance idea,” Sam said, affronted. “It’s only a few grand, but it’s enough to pay for gas and wherever we wanna stay.”

Dean pursed his lips. “So we could be at a bed and breakfast right now instead of some dump from the ’50’s?”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” Sam laughed. “But we can stay out of the sixty dollar range, at least.”

He could see it now, an actual room in a real hotel with a shower that beat his back raw and room service and certified clean sheets. Motels were nice—inexpensive, a place to lay his head at night—but given the chance, Dean would pick anywhere else to stay. “Next time, then,” Dean asserted. “Find us a Hilton or a Ramada, something that’s got actual carpet.”

“Can do,” Sam aa. He pushed his plate away and gathered Dean’s after he finished, taking the cutlery with him. “Shower’s yours. Got mine after I got back earlier.”

After spending the morning fending off the cold on the sidewalks in town, relaxing in the bathtub sounded like the best idea ever. If it could shake the chill in his bones, even better. Dean pulled a fresh set of pajamas from his duffel in the bedroom before secluding himself behind the bathroom door, the clatter of Sam washing dishes dulled to soft, noiseless clinks.

Dean had to admit, he was getting better at maneuvering himself, able to keep himself upright long enough to transfer between his chair and couches, the floor, the passenger seat of the Impala, and the bathtub on occasion. Now, he sat on the lip of the tub while he undressed, dirtied clothes folded and set aside, his clean set and a towel sitting atop the toilet lid. The running faucet at his back soothed him, filling the room with warmth, sweat beading at his nape by the time he shucked off his boxer briefs, leaving him bare.

Hissing through gritted teeth, Dean submerged himself after the tub finished filling, the initial sting of hot water burning, at least for the first few seconds. Water shut off, Dean listened to the occasional drip from the faucet and Sam finishing cleanup, the motel room eventually lapsing into silence. The peace left him uneasy, even with the knowledge that they weren’t hunting here; no monsters were waiting for them around corners, no police were planning to break through their door and arrest them—at least not yet—and as far as he knew, the closest thing to a creature he saw in the last week was the crow that insisted on standing guard outside their door, like they were planning to feed it.

Knowing Sam, he was probably feeding the thing french fries behind Dean’s back.

Still, the water sought to soothe him, attempted to keep him sane while it worked its way into his skin, all traces of winter eradicated for the time being. He could sleep there, he knew, nod off and wake up the next morning submerged in cold water, if he didn’t drown first.

He could do it; given the chance, all Dean had to do was fall back and stay under, fight the urge to resurface and let out the last of his oxygen supply. His first attempt—years before, after Sam took off and John left him in a town barely large enough to fit the head of a pin on a map—ended in failure, solely because a lone image had flashed across his mind at the last minute, before his vision began to blacken under the surface.

A lighthouse, painted white with a red widow’s walk, casting yellowed light into the fog. At the time, it didn’t make sense, but the picture remained with him for years, always in the back of his head. _Lighthouse_ , he realized, sitting up with enough force to slosh water in a large wave to the other end of the tub. Earlier in the day, he spotted the shell of one, its beam breaking through the snow and the clouds, signaling for boats that would never come.

It may not have been the one from his vision, but it still compelled him, drew him in the longer he thought on it. _After Sam’s asleep_ , he told himself, laying back and sinking below the surface just long enough to wet his hair. After Sam fell asleep, he would go.

 

-+-+-+-

The snow, thankfully, calmed to flurries by the time Dean managed to sneak out of the room, wearing two shirts, three pairs of socks on each leg and the heaviest jacket he could manage. Most of the lights in residential homes and hotel rooms along the shore were shut off, bathing the sand beneath his feet in darkness, the soft lap of waves his only company. Amidst the gray sky and the accumulation gathering on the white-painted fence posts, Cape May’s Lighthouse cast its haunting light into the darkness, flashing every fifteen seconds, a signal he wasn’t sure ever shut off.

Now in the night, Dean followed the beacon with his hands shoved in his pockets, aimless as he walked. His leg threatened to lock up with the cold, along with the rest of him. “Stupid idea,” he muttered to himself, breath visible. “Shoulda just gone to bed.”

Sleep wasn’t easy to come by, though, not since his bathtub epiphany. Sam nodded off without a problem, snoring by the time Dean ever made it into bed just before midnight. The idea of the lighthouse continued to call to him, kept him from settling for longer than five minutes, until he gave up and made his way outside. Probably not the best idea, but it was better than just lying there waiting for morning to come.

Apparently, someone further down the shore had the same idea as him, the dark visage of a woman outlined in front of a concrete structure blanketed in unmelted snow. The further he ventured, the more she came into shape, her hair braided and swept over one shoulder, a heavy tan coat draped over her frame and cinched tight around the waist, feet donning knee-high combat boots. She reminded him of Billie for a fleeting moment, their profiles nearly similar, eyes just as hard.

Except, Dean didn’t remember Billie’s eyes being blue. “Didn’t expect to see anybody out here,” the woman said, her lips curled into a subtle grin. “You look lost.”

 _Lost_ was an understatement—if it weren’t for the gleam of the street lights a mile down the beach, Dean wouldn’t have known which way was home. “Needed some air,” Dean managed, teeth chattering. Beyond the concrete structure—a bunker of some sort, based on the hard geometric lines and orange-painted doors reading No Entry—the Lighthouse continued its nightly ritual, uninterrupted. “You do this every night?”

“Not every night,” the woman shrugged, turning to face the ocean. “Only the nights I can feel you calling out to me.”

Dean swallowed, his throat clicking. Eyes— _always_ the eyes. “You—”

“Did you think about what I asked you in Indiana?” Castiel said, fully facing him now, expectation in his eyes. “About how you feel about yourself.”

“Told you, didn’t wanna think about it,” Dean whined, a hand over his eyes; Castiel wasn’t fazed, just continued to watch him with wonder. “I still wanna know why _you’re_ here.”

“In time,” Castiel said, and extended a hand to Dean. “Sit with me for a while. Please.”

 

With reluctance, Dean followed Castiel’s lead and sat in the shadow of the battery, occasional flurries fluttering close, melting on his pant legs. Despite his immediate insecurities—Castiel had returned, after all, now in the body of a woman eerily reminiscent of his friend—he felt… _calm_ there, with Castiel at his side, their hands almost touching between them. “You’re startin’ to freak me out,” Dean admitted, fisting the sand and listening to it crunch. “Are you sure you aren’t just… wearing people?”

Castiel looked down at himself, stretching his legs and letting his boots knock together. “On the contrary,” he said, glancing over to Dean. “I told you, I can take whatever form I want. I was intending to hide myself from you, just to observe, but I find it more… challenging than I would like.” He turned back to the surf, the gray sky reflected in cobalt eyes. “How did you know it was me?”

Dean chuckled, dropping his chin to his chest. “Ain’t very subtle with your eyes,” he mentioned. “They always that blue?”

“It’s one of my main attributes, yes,” Castiel admitted. “I was always fond of the color.”

 _Looks good on you_ , Dean thought before he could catch himself. Whether Castiel heard him or not, Castiel never let on, just continued to stare out into the Atlantic and let mist blow from between his lips. “Still aren’t gonna tell me why you’re following me, are you?”

“…I find myself fond of you,” Castiel admitted. Dean almost choked on his tongue, just from how blasé it all sounded. Really, an _Angel_ was fond of _him_ , out of anyone else in the world? “Humanity has never ceased to amaze me. The struggles you endure, the battles you win and lose, your strength… And then there’s you, on top of everyone I’ve ever met.”

Dean humphed, lowered himself onto his back with his hands pillowing his head. Probably not the smartest idea, but at least if he froze here, maybe Castiel could keep frostbite from taking the rest of his leg. “Still don’t see what’s so special ‘bout me,” Dean spoke, blinking slow at the cloud layer, flat, looming above. Another question weighed on his heart, even more pressing. “…How long’ve you been watching me?”

Castiel didn’t answer at first, just twirled a braid around his finger and let it go. “I supposed that’s inappropriate to say.”

“C’mon,” Dean joshed, nudging Castiel’s boot. “It’s not like you’ve been creepin’ on me since I was a baby, right?” Silence; Dean narrowed his eyes. “…Right?”

“You were an infant when we first met,” Castiel began, quiet. Dean closed his eyes, let out a breath. Of _course_ Castiel had known him all his life; what else did Dean expect of him? “For a number of years, a few of my brothers and sisters were tasked with watching over newborns, and you were the first human I had ever encountered. We were guardian angels, I guess you would call us.” Castiel stopped to laugh, something forlorn in his expression. “…You were teething, and you screamed at me when your parents left. I babysat you for a few years.”

Dean snorted. “That’s what babies do, Cas, they scream.” Beside him, Castiel smiled, mirth in his eyes at the memory, a memory Dean couldn’t recall even if he tried. His heart panged with his next question, “…My mom, what was she like?”

Castiel hummed, almost melodic as he brushed snowflakes from his hair. “You don’t remember your mother?”

“Some,” Dean said. “Not as much as I’d like, but…”

“She was lovely,” Castiel said; he lowered himself to the sand and crossed his arms across his stomach, fingers interlocked. “She was worried about leaving you alone that night. I believe it was the first time she and your father had left the house without you. She paid me fifty dollars to stay the night and make sure you didn’t smother yourself.”

A rather loud wave crashed in the silence between them, startling Dean out of his imagination, struggling to replicate the scene in his head. He tried to picture it, a younger version of the Angel he met just months before carrying him around while he screamed bloody murder into the night. “…What’d you do after that?”

Castiel closed his eyes, peaceful. “I couldn’t stand listening to you in pain. …I sat with you in front of the fireplace until you settled. You slept just fine, actually. Your mother was worried for nothing.”

“She must’ve liked you if you kept coming back,” Dean added, turning his head. Castiel let out slow breaths at his side, almost trance-like, rhythmic in a way that left Dean mirroring him, inhale, exhale. “Why’d you keep doing it? You didn’t need the money, how…?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admitted. “I suppose I wanted to see who you would become, what your life would turn out to be like.” He stopped, abrupt enough for Dean to notice. “Then I lost track of you.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffed, nearing a growl, “you can thank my old man for that.”

“I regret your circumstances,” Castiel said, sitting up and brushing the sand from his jacket. “I regret what your father made you become, but there’s one thing you have to know from this.”

Dean pushed himself upright, movements slow, his body near frigid. “Don’t start—”

“You’re better than you think,” Castiel cut him off. Dean squinted when Castiel touched his face with both hands, tenser than he had been in months. Castiel may have known Dean since he was a child, but he didn’t _know_ him. Castiel hadn’t been there when the fire took his mother’s life, he hadn’t been there when John went on his quest for vengeance across North America with him and Sam in the backseat. He hadn’t been there when he stood on the railing of the Flint River Bridge in the dead of night, waiting for a sign, for anything to keep him from jumping. “You’re a better _man_ than you think. You can’t let this cloud he’s cast over you damn you.”

“‘M not.” Sharply, Dean jerked away, unwilling to see the look of disappointment on Castiel’s face, frown probably deepening. “I’m—You don’t _know_ me, Cas—”

“I want to, though.” Again, Castiel reached out to touch him, gentler than before, more coaxing; Dean turned to him with wet eyes, tears spilling through closed eyelids. “Give me that chance.”

“You won’t stay,” Dean said, choked. “You’ll leave again.”

“I have to.” Castiel thumbed away the wetness under his eye and leaned in, lips pressed to his forehead. “Until you accept why I saved you, I’ll continue to leave. And we’ll continue to meet, just like we are now.”

Dean sputtered what he hoped was a laugh, the sound smothered in Castiel’s chest with Castiel pulled him closer, tucking Dean’s head under his chin; Dean hugged his waist, let the warmth bleed into his body. “Where should me ’n Sam go?”

“Florida,” Castiel suggested. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

Florida sounded nice, the land of beaches and the elderly and Disney World. “Please tell me I don’t have to hang out with tourists.”

For the first time, Castiel laughed, the sound faintly resembling bells. “You’ll know my work when you see it.” In slow increments, Castiel pulled away until Dean was sitting upright, curled into himself. “We’ll meet again,” Castiel assured. “For now…”

Dean watched Castiel place two fingers to his forehead, wary, and felt the world shift from underneath him. What was once a beach immediately resembled his bedroom back at the motel and the darkness that encased it, Sam’s soft snores taking the place of the surf lapping at the shore. Sam was asleep. Dean was back in the room, and Castiel was gone, erased from existence for another few days, until they made their way to Florida.

Why Florida? Why not Hawaii, or Los Angeles? Somewhere warmer where he could feel his toes.

Still dressed in his clothes, Dean let his head fall back onto the pillow, the air rushing out from under him. At least this way, he didn’t have to walk all the way back. “Fucking Angel,” he muttered under his breath and turned over, burying himself under the sheets, unwilling to move for anything or anyone until the morning.

-+-+-+-

“Florida?” Sam coughed later the next day, pounding his chest to clear the last of their lunch in town. “Really? He told you—And why were you out? You’re gonna get _frostbite_ —”

“Relax,” Dean waved him off. “Couldn’t sleep, so I walked down to the beach. Besides, he was there—”

“—But you didn’t _know_ that—”

“Sam, _focus_.” Dean jabbed a french fry at him, dripping ketchup onto his plate. “Look, I’m here, alright? Cas sent me back to the room, ’n Cas didn’t let me freeze my ass off.”

Sam snorted. “You’re calling him Cas now?”

Dean nearly dropped his fry. “You shush,” he growled and finished off his plate, running his finger through the leftover grease staining the porcelain. Not the best burger of his life, but better than any diner they had been to in the last few years. “All he said was that he’d be in Florida next. Didn’t say where, just that it wasn’t in Orlando.”

Sam pouted at that, his shoulders slumping. Of course he wanted to go to Orlando; he was still young enough to actually enjoy the parks. But unless he planned to shell out a few hundred for tickets, Disney World was nowhere in Dean’s immediate thoughts. “You sure we can’t—?”

“Not now,” Dean groaned, head in his hands. “I promise, we make it out west and I’ll take you to Disneyland. That sound good?”

“I’m taking you up on that,” Sam said with a grin, teeth showing. Dean motioned for the check while Sam fished a twenty out of his wallet, fresh from the ATM down the road. “We’re meeting the Hopewell’s at Congress Hall in twenty. You up for a walk?”

Dean stood and stretched, right leg trembling with the effort. “Need a walk anyway,” he sighed, letting the air rush from his lungs. “Ain’t been able to move like I want to in a few weeks.”

True enough; driving across the country didn’t exactly promote good exercise, and going through his morning and nightly routine only got him so far before the fever set in, the constant need to move, to go somewhere with his own two legs. At one point, driving quelled the urge—now, he craved the wind in his hair and gravel beneath his feet, his hands touching something other than age-worn leather.

Walks were good; he could do walks, as long as the weather cooperated and he didn’t have to traipse over snowbanks or through floodwaters. The weather had warmed somewhat compared to the day prior, settling somewhere in the forties once the sun came up; no longer crippling, but still enough for a coat and jeans. Dean’s cheeks and nose reddened the longer they walked down the sidewalk amongst the tourists and locals, Sam bouncing along at his side, humming some tuneless song into the wind.

At least Sam was happy. Dean couldn’t say much about himself, not after his fitful night of sleep and six A.M. wake up call, courtesy of Charlie calling both his and Sam’s phones repeatedly, begging for an update. Dean didn’t even bother to try after that, too on edge to care. After their interview, they planned to leave New Jersey, in search of whatever they could find along the way. As long as no tourist traps were involved, maybe he could actually make some progress, or at least begin figure out what Castiel had been talking about, about worth and Dean ‘deserving’ things.

 _Right_ —like Dean deserved anything other than a nameless grave.

“It’s that place up there,” Sam said, abrupt, pointing to the pastel yellow-painted mansion parallel to the beach, the façade surrounded by greenery and dozens of cars parked in the adjoining lots.

“No way that’s a hotel,” Dean blurted, eyes wide. If anything, some rich family owned the land and allowed people to host dinner parties there, not actually stay the night. How much did rooms run, anyway?

“That’s what the website said,” Sam said, indifferent. “Mr. and Mrs. Hopewell are probably inside already.” Sam stopped beside the entry lane to the parking lot and turned to Dean. “You ready?”

Dean shrugged, gritting his teeth. “…Ready ’s ever.”


	5. Florida

_December 23rd, 2006  
Deland, Florida_

Florida—the land of palm trees and retirement homes—was blissfully warm when they arrived two weeks later, temperatures in the middle seventies, even two days before Christmas. “Thank fuck,” Dean spouted the second he stepped out of the Impala in the Comfort Inn parking lot in Deland, greeted with humidity and dry ground, both features they had yet to see in the last few days, the majority of their trip blanketed by snow and rain. Unusual for this time of year, but it was over, the east coast leg of their trip done.

_Thank God, too,_ Dean praised, eyes to the blue sky above. Another minute stuck in snow drifts and wearing triple layers and he would have called it quits, given up his mission and just driven out to California—or even Mexico—to escape winter’s wrath. Anywhere but there.

Florida served as a nice alternative, though, as far as non-hellish environments went. For the most part, Deland looked like any other town they passed through, with the added bonus of palm trees on every corner and signs claiming Cocoa Beach was within driving distance, along with every billboard declaring the Magic Kingdom was affordable family fun. At least Sam hadn’t asked to head over to the Space Center yet—only a matter of time.

Sam reserved their room in advance, leaving him to pay the few hundred dollars for their stay at the desk in return for their room keys. “Bottom floor,” Sam said, tossing Dean one of the plastic cards—an _actual_ card key—and hoisting both their bags over his shoulders. “Two queens, last one they had.”

“Christmas is in the air,” Dean singsonged and switched the card key between his hands while they walked. “Seriously, is everyone in town this week?”

“Wouldn’t doubt it,” Sam chuckled.

The halls smelled faintly of disinfectant and pine air freshener the further they walked in search of room 118, all the way on the back side of the building, and with direct pool access, apparently. If only it were warmer. Sam found the room after a minute of scouring, sliding his key through the lock and shoving the door open. Cool air rushed out, even staler than the hall, yet infinitely more pleasing.

“It smells just like I imagined,” Dean announced through an exaggerated moan and threw himself onto the bed closest to the door, sighing into the comforter. No odd smells, no lumps in the mattress, no suspicious stains—nothing but fresh linens and soft cotton.

Meanwhile, Sam laughed at him and set their bags down by the dresser—a real dresser made of wood, with a functioning television set. An extra sixty dollars went a long way, apparently. Sam’s money wouldn’t last long, though, not if they intended to stay in three star hotels every night in the foreseeable future, but Dean wanted it all the same, reveled in the fabric against his skin, inhaled the scent of nothing.

“When you’re done making out with the mattress, you’re gonna need to go get your chair,” Sam announced from the opposite bed and tossed Dean the keys, the ring jingling near Dean’s hip. “They got a room service menu.”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Dean moaned, punching the pillow. “Put me down for whatever’s got bacon.”

After reluctantly forcing himself from bed, Dean made his way from the room to the parking lot, fighting off the limp that was threatening to make itself known. Too long in the car, he figured; they hadn’t stopped since last night’s layover in Darien, their third interview since they left Cape May just as the weather took a turn. Some of them hadn’t been more a few minutes with each family, while others required stopping for a few nights, especially if Dean’s leg started acting up.

Half a month, and he was already down to four bottles of pills; no doubt Sam was keeping a tally of how many disappeared, especially at the rate they were driving. “Not one of my better ideas,” Dean muttered to himself, making his way through the double doors into the front lot.

A gentle breeze picked up in the few minutes since their arrival, blowing the palm fronds in the parking lot, a set of wind chimes hanging from one of the balconies jangling with every gust, just loud enough to make him twitch. Popping the trunk, Dean pulled the folded wheelchair from the floorboard and let it rest on the back bumper, long enough for a stranger to slam the lid closed.

Dean could have protested—could have shouted and clocked whoever it was in the face, especially a year ago. As of now, Dean stood still on the sidewalk, jaw dropped at the man standing at his side: dark, windswept hair, with thick eyebrows, pouting lips—the same exact face he saw in the movie theater a year ago. The only question was, what was _he_ doing in some Podunk town in Florida?

“Need any help?” the man asked, wiping his dirt-stained hands on his jeans, only furthering the dirt-stained mess on his pants. His shirt didn’t fare any better, spattered with mud up to his collar.

Dean swallowed, willing the blush rising up his neck back down, _way_ down. “I’m—I’m good,” he stammered, hands sweating. “‘M good, thanks for askin’ though.”

The man offered a smile and clapped Dean’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to linger. “Be safe out there,” he said and left Dean, disappearing through the hotel’s front doors, his boots leaving dust in his wake.

“You— _You_ be safe out there,” Dean shot back, his mouth not cooperating with his brain, or any other functions for that matter. Belatedly, he looked back to the Impala and the dusty handprint the man left behind, clearly defined against the black paint.

Great. Not only did he have to keep himself from hyperventilating, but he had to explain just why someone had smacked their dirty hand on the back of his car.

-+-+-+-

“You’re _kidding_ ,” Sam said the following morning, blueberry muffin shoved in his mouth. Dean manned the waffle iron in the hotel lobby, not-so-patiently counting the seconds until he could find out if he burnt his breakfast to hell and back. “You’re telling me Jake Gyllenhaal is in this hotel?”

“If it ain’t him, then he deserves an award for best lookalike,” Dean yawned, covering his mouth with his fist.

The memory of that man—that _face_ —kept Dean up half the night, restless on his plush mattress, unanswered questions floating in the back of his mind, still lingering the next day. And Sam had the brilliant idea to wake him up before the sun rose, just to tell him about his research he apparently started at four in the morning.

Sam had been up since _four_ —Dean needed to find another brother.

“That why you were up all night?” Sam asked. “Never thought you were gonna actually sit still.”

“Yeah, well, you see someone famous, you’d be excited too.”

Sam snorted. “ _Excited_ , right.”

“Hey.” Dean spun around, just in time for the waffle iron’s timer to go off with a broken screech. No scorch marks, no soggy batter or totally melted chocolate chips, and only one broken, slightly burnt strawberry. Years of mastery, all for the almost-perfect waffle; nothing to be proud of, but Dean loved it regardless. “Next time you meet Keira Knightley, remind me to start mocking you.”

“I wasn’t—” Sam gave up with an exaggerated groan and sat back in his chair, afterwards going for his second muffin of the morning, this one layered thick with blackberries. They really needed to find hotels with continental breakfasts more often, preferably ones with buffet tables and an unlimited supply of batter. “Look, you said you saw him, fine. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Plate and syrup packets in his lap, Dean rolled over to Sam’s table and set it down, next to their coffee cups and Sam’s near-empty plate of eggs and toast. “Nothing, really. Figured it was better than you watching some ducks chase a cat.”

Sam blinked. “Got me there.”

“Damn right,” Dean grinned around his waffle. Still a little too soft in the middle, but enough to ignore in favor of a concentrated pile of chocolate chips. “Who’re we up for today?”

“Alexander Ward,” Sam answered, swallowing. “Went off the deep end with drugs a few years back, and his family disowned him on his deathbed. Complete organ shutdown, doctors gave him less than a week to live.” Dean nodded along, poking at his breakfast with slowing enthusiasm. “One day, he woke up, all the tests came back negative. Said it was like someone healed him, that was the only way he could describe it.”

It matched with all of the other stories they had heard over the last month, the vast majority being miraculous healings of either limbs or organs, even a traumatic brain injury. The lone outlier still left Dean antsy after the fact, the woman’s story of being talked down off a dam hitting too close to Dean’s heart. Whether they knew it or not, Castiel picked the most deserving people to save.

His knee ached with the notion, the very idea that Castiel thought he deserved _saving_ , deserved to live despite all the lives he had taken over the years, ever since he was a child. A _child_ ; he should have been in school, going over to friend’s houses in the afternoon, playing baseball in the yard, not hunting fucking _monsters_.

“Sounds like our guy,” Dean confirmed, cutting another bite. The waffle had cooled in the interval, almost stale in his mouth with each bite; still he ate on, ignoring the look Sam shot him the entire time, somewhere between confusion and awe. “Staring, Sam.”

“I’m not,” Sam lied. “You just look like you’re thinking.”

“I do that,” Dean said and finally pushed his plate away, empty save for a few crumbs. “Just… I got four bottles in my bag, right?”

Slowly, Sam nodded. “…Are you still taking them?”

“Not like I was. ’N I haven’t had an issue for a few days. Just… I’ll keep one, you flush the other three.”

A blink, followed by a small, almost hopeful grin; Dean lowered his head. “I can do that,” Sam said with confidence, almost giddy. Who knew disposing of prescription drugs could make Sam happy. “We can’t flush them, though. There’s a dumpster out back we’ll toss them in when we get back.”

Dean agreed with a nod, hands fisted in his lap, knuckles white. He didn’t need them, hadn’t needed them for a long while, but they were still there, nagging him in his subconscious. Sam could trash them for all Dean cared, just as long as they were out of his reach.

Until he found out what Castiel wanted, Dean wouldn’t uncap another bottle again.

-+-+-+-

De Leon Springs sat a short ways off of State Route 17, discreetly hidden in a mess of pines and cypress trees, a few oaks draped in Spanish moss lining the driveways and the parking lots past the fee booth at the front of the park. For the second day in a row, the weather cooperated, temperatures entering the upper sixties by the time they finally left the hotel that morning, slowly rising on their drive there to a comfortable seventy. Cool enough to leave the windows down for most of the way, until Sam parked beneath a willow for shade, some of the branches gently caressing the roof.

“Nothing better be in Baby when we get back,” Dean complained the second he stepped out of the Impala, hand braced on the top of the window as he pushed himself to his feet. “’M not havin’ birds make a nest on the dash.”

“That was the _one time_ ,” Sam half-shouted, eyes rolled back. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

Dean laughed. “Never gonna happen, Sammy.”

Past the somewhat empty lot and a gathering of families at one of the picnic pavilions, Dean spotted a lone picnic table open on the far end of the playground, its occupant toying with his cellphone, expressionless. He looked better than Dean pictured, Korean with hair just long enough to touch his shoulders, brown eyes as dark as the checkered flannel he wore over his shirt, jeans well-worn with holes worn in the back pockets. Healthier than Dean expected, more vibrant; his heart ached with what he must have looked like three years before.

“Sam,” Dean said halfway across the field, Alexander now waving them down. “I… kinda wanna talk to him alone.”

To his shock, Sam went without a fight, just clapped Dean’s shoulder and squeezed tight. “I wanted to check out the springs anyway. Meet you back here in an hour or so?”

With Dean’s nod, Sam left in a rush, a little too fast for Dean’s liking. Dean filled the absence with his own footsteps, shoes squishing against sodden ground, no doubt wet from recent rains. He hadn’t been to Florida in years, not since Sam was just hitting his teens and Key West sounded like a brilliant place to hunt a pod of rogue merpeople bent on murdering every fisherman along the coast. Sometimes he could still feel its claws sinking into his thigh, a failed attempt to properly gut him over the edge of his canoe.

It, and the rest of its siblings, were dead now, out of sight, out of mind. As long as this trip didn’t involve a spontaneous adventure in any sort of boat, he would be fine.

For now, he concentrated on Alexander. The boy, barely over twenty from Dean’s guess, extended a hand to Dean when he finally seated himself at the picnic table, back facing the edge of the tabletop. “You’re younger than I figured,” Alexander quipped, earning a laugh from Dean. “Based on what your brother said, I thought you were gonna be some crotchety old man.”

“Feel like one sometimes,” Dean said, attempting to mask his grin. At least Alexander thought it was funny, his shoulders shaking with his mirth. “Did have a cane for a while, though.”

Alexander nodded. “I noticed your walk.” Dean shot him a look, brow quirked. “My grandpa had a fake too, old war injury. You’re putting too much weight on your left leg, that’s why you’re limping.”

Dean grimaced, rubbing his knee in sympathy. “Sound like my therapist.”

Another laugh, this time gentler. “How’d you lose it?”

“…Story for another day,” Dean sighed. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ you questions?”

“You can,” Alexander mused. “Only if you tell me if we know the same guy.”

_What_? Dean sat back, bracing himself with his elbows on the table; Alexander pocketed his phone and spun himself to face Dean, one ankle crossed over his knee. From what Dean knew, majority of the people he visited recalled seeing a singular figure in their dreams, the other two in the flesh. “…So you’re saying—”

“You saw him too, didn’t you?” Alexander asked, speculative. Dean nodded, feeling the tension bleed from his bones with Alexander’s nod. “…Thought I was dreaming at first. Well, technically I was, if you count the coma. Look…” He stopped to look down at his ankles, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t my parent’s ‘golden child’ like they wanted. Did fine in school, but I wasn’t my brother. Everyone loved him, worshipped the ground he walked on.

“But I met this guy in my junior year, and he hooked me up with everything I ever wanted. I just… I wanted to take my mind off it, y’know? Off everything. Senior year had me busting my ass trying to keep up, and I knew if I didn’t have something, I wouldn’t graduate.”

Dean stopped him. “What’d he get you on?”

“Everything,” Alexander admitted, head hung low. “Crack, PCP, meth. Pretty sure he cooked everything in his basement. My parents found out after graduation and kicked me out, and by that time…” He stopped to rub the back of his neck, raising his eyes to the cirrus clouds above them. “Got a bad batch. At that point, I didn’t care. I was living behind a motel, I barely had enough money to eat, and no one was answering my calls. And one day, I just… That was it.”

Dean waited while Alexander steadied himself, brought himself out of the memory and back to reality. “You don’t gotta say it if you can’t,” Dean told him, patting Alexander’s knee. “Trust me, I… I get it. My old man dragged me ’n my brother around the States for years, and I’ve never forgiven him for the shit he put us through. Wasn’t even there half the time, and after Sam left… I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

Alexander lowered his hands to his lap. “What’d you do?”

Swallowing, Dean wiped his palms on his pants, returning to absentmindedly rubbing his knee. “Got high, drank myself sick, almost jumped off an overpass. …Just stuff to take my mind off the fact I was alone.”

A nod. “All I remember from the hospital is waking up and this dream. There was this… man. White guy in a ratty gray suit. He showed up a few times and we’d talk, like he knew me or something. And one day he touched me like this,” Alexander demonstrated by pressing two fingers to Dean’s forehead, the same as all the others, “and I woke up and scared half the nurses.”

Dean snorted; he knew the feeling all too well, waking up choking on breathing tubes and everything else shoved down his throat. “He healed you.”

“Like nothing happened,” Alexander said, giddy. “All I’ve got are the scars from the IVs. But… my parents never took me back.” He stopped and shook his head, wringing his hands in his lap. “But I straightened up. Whoever that was, he gave me a second chance, and I wanted to do right by that. I figure, you get another shot at life, you should do something with it, right?”

Smothering hesitation, Dean nodded along, shoulders a bit too tense. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m living with my aunt, at least until I finish college,” Alexander shrugged. “Only one who didn’t turn me out. I got a job offer out at the Parks this summer, though. They want me to intern as Peter Pan.”

Dean blinked. “Think you can score my brother some tickets?”

Alexander laughed, booming; Dean didn’t bother to hide his grin, his teeth showing. “Dude, give me your number and I can get you anything.”

After another minute of exchanges, they parted ways, Dean with a new number in his contact list and Alexander with Dean’s real number in his pocket. From what Dean could tell, Sam was either still at the springs or on one of the hiking trails listed on the park map; probably the latter, based on how fast Sam ran towards the exact opposite end of where he was supposed to.

“Now what’m I gonna do?” Dean wondered aloud, hands in his pockets, walking to one of the empty pavilions. He wasn’t Sam—nature never really did it for him, at least in the past. His leg ached just thinking about a long walk, and swimming in the current weather probably wasn’t advisable, at least not until spring. Or, knowing Florida, next week.

“That was a nice thing you did for him, listening,” a familiar voice said at his back; Dean straightened in an instant, spinning hard enough to lose his balance and— _almost_ —collapse into the memo board, back to the aging map. The man standing there didn’t help his already pounding heart, his vision filled with the man from the parking lot all over again, blue eyes vibrant in the shade of the pavilion.

Dean swallowed, fisting his heart, the man’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady. “ _Cas_?” he stammered; Castiel nodded, lips curled into a smirk. “What—Why d’you look like that?”

“Like what?” Castiel said, glancing down at himself. “I’ve always found this man pleasing.”

_Pleasing_ —what an understatement. “You just— _God_ , you know he’s popular, right? How do you not have women falling all over you?”

“The only one falling here is you,” Castiel retorted, smug; Dean rolled his eyes, collecting himself and again wiping his hands dry. “Alexander was one of my favorites.”

Really, Dean understood why. At no point had Alexander exuded anything but unbridled enthusiasm, life in his eyes like Dean had never seen before. Renewal— _rebirth_. “…How many people have you healed?” Dean asked, curiosity piqued.

Once more, Castiel squeezed his shoulder before dropping his hand; Dean felt it even after he let go, skin burning like a brand. “Maybe a hundred,” Castiel reflected. “Some are from other Angels, but most are mine. I tend to the sick and dying, mostly to those who deserve second chances.”

Dean hummed. “You still think I deserve a second chance?”

Castiel nodded, resolute. “You, most of all.”

Dean hung his head, kicked at the grass beneath his feet. “Still don’t get it,” he said, near pained, eventually turning to look past the pavilions and the walking paths, all the way to a wood-paneled building looking out over the clear teal springs. His stomach made itself known with an abrupt rumble, Castiel letting out a short laugh at his side. “How d’you feel about pancakes, Cas?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel said, thumbs tucked into his jean pockets, now devoid of dust and dirt. Remarkably clean compared to yesterday. “I don’t eat.”

Dean blinked. “Today’s your lucky day then,” he said and grabbed Castiel’s wrist, warm under his fingertips. The tips of his ears heated the longer Castiel looked at him, a curious glint in his eyes. “This is—I—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel soothed and, somehow, managed to get Dean’s hand into his own, lacing their fingers together. This was fine; Dean could deal with this, as long as no one looked in their direction or remotely _cared_. If only that stopped his face from heating with every passing second, his neck no doubt red under Castiel’s scrutiny. “I believe you were about to ask me if I wanted to have lunch with you?”

“I—yeah.” With Castiel’s hand clutched in his own, Dean lead them from the pavilion and headed in the direction of the Old Spanish Sugar Mill, with its Spanish moss-decorated trees outside the front doors, the faint whirr of ceiling fans managing to catch his attention over the smell of pancakes wafting out from the open windows. “Think I might be in heaven,” Dean said, entranced, walking through the front door, but not before relinquishing their hold, letting his hands hang useless at his sides.

“Heaven is decidedly different,” Castiel offered once they were seated, their waitress handing over two menus, out of the way of the steaming griddle in between them. A real working one, not the pathetic excuse Bobby kept in the broiler under his stove along with the rest of the frying pans. Various mill stones and grinding wheels decorated the interior, machine parts hung on the walls along with vintage signage and rail posts, all probably found on location or locally. Only one other couple joined them at that hour, secluded in a booth across the room, too enrapt to notice someone else was there. “Less… rustic.”

“Part of the charm,” Dean said, looking over the laminated menu. “Looks like a Cracker Barrel exploded in here.”

“It’s quaint,” Castiel mused, still eyeing their surroundings. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a restaurant.”

Dean snorted. “You’re missin’ out, man. What do you do when you’re not healing people?”

Their waitress returned before Castiel could answer, taking Dean’s order—pancakes for the both of them, along with sides of pecans and blueberries and apples, and probably more eggs and sausage than either needed. But he had the money, thirty dollars left over from a pool game two nights ago, the other few dozen spent on gas. Enough to pay for the meal and for Sam, if he returned before Dean was finished destroying whatever they brought him.

Castiel only answered once their food arrived, Dean almost too busy looking over the plates to hear what he said. “Would you believe me if I said I traveled the continents?”

“Probably,” Dean smirked, waving a hand over the griddle. “You take a plane, or do you—?”

“Fly, most of the time,” Castiel offered.

Dean looked up long enough to lose focus, nearly letting his hand drop onto the hot metal. “Like, _fly_ fly? With actual—”

“With wings, yes.” Castiel cocked his head, a strand of hair falling over his forehead. “If you’re asking if they’re real, they are. They’re just… not where you can see them.”

“Bet they’re bitchin’,” Dean said, faking composure. Sure, Castiel had wings. Why wouldn’t he? Now wasn’t the time or place to ask to _see_ them though, not in the middle of a restaurant in equally middle of nowhere Florida. “What—You got a preference?”

“You choice,” Castiel suggested, hands on the wood before him.

Dean took it for it was and, portions gathered alongside the griddle, poured out the first of hopefully many pancakes, sprinkling the soft batter with a combination of blueberries and pecans, all while Castiel watched along, entranced. “You’re enjoying yourself,” Castiel observed offhand while Dean poured the second, this one plain.

“Don’t get a chance to do this often,” Dean considered, going for indifferent. Still, Castiel sensed his excitement, lips quirked into a grin while something faintly tapped Dean’s shoe, reverberating through his right knee. Castiel’s foot, he recognized; his stomach twisted, heart heavy in his chest. “Other foot,” he said, low, too occupied with flipping a pancake without burning it.

For the first time, Dean swore he saw embarrassment flood Castiel’s cheeks, his gaze distant. “I didn’t realize,” Castiel whispered, barely audible.

“’S not a big deal.” To emphasize, Dean tapped Castiel’s ankle with his other foot, toeing the hem of Castiel’s jeans. “Let me in on it next time, though? Still kinda numb.”

“I’ll be sure to inform you.” Castiel gave him a sly smile, his elbows now resting on the table’s edge. “Show me?”

After successfully—and without major injury to their food—plating the two pancakes on the table, Dean walked Castiel through the process: how to hold the jar of batter at a high enough angle to keep it from splattering, how slow to pour, how to successfully keep everything inside while flipping them. Castiel took to it faster than Dean figured, even going so far as to frying an egg alongside the sausage Dean set to grill.

“Y’should think about this as a career,” Dean joked.

Castiel laughed under his breath and tapped Dean’s foot again, this time toeing just behind his heel. “Hospitals are cruel,” he said, abrupt. “They air Food Network yet never let humans eat what they want.”

Dean snickered, a grin splitting his lips. “Quality control,” he suggested. “First thing I did when I got out? Greasiest hamburger I could stomach.”

“I fear for your heart,” Castiel deadpanned.

“Heart ain’t what’s gonna kill me.” Dean plated their pancakes and pushed a plate in Castiel’s direction, following with their sides. “Try it. Promise, it ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, lighthearted. “You’re insistent.”

“I don’t see you stopping,” Dean sneered. Across the booth, Castiel took a fork and knife from the napkin roller and, with Dean’s offering of syrup, cut into the stack and bit into the portion; his eyes widened as he chewed, and Dean practically glowed at the sight. “Good?”

Swallowing, Castiel turned his attention to him, enamored. “This may have been a mistake.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed, clutching his stomach under the table. “That good, huh?”

Castiel joined in, just as enthralled. “Understatement.”

They finished their meal in relatively good spirits, Dean paying after having thoroughly shoved everything he could down Castiel’s throat, including leftover individual pieces of chocolate, pecans, and the lone apple slice that remained. “I liked that,” Castiel said, wistful, in the parking lot after their departure, Dean leaning on the Impala’s passenger side door. Sam would be back soon, he figured, probably done with his hike by now, or at least mostly through.

“Told you, nature’s gift,” Dean joshed, and pushed Castiel’s shoulder, not nearly enough to throw him off balance, but enough to keep his attention. “Where’re you off to next?”

Castiel let out a breath, glancing over his shoulder towards the near-empty parking lot, at the family gathered at the far away pavilion. Christmas Eve, and Dean figured more people would have been there, at least more than three or four groups. “Nowhere specific,” Castiel supplied. “If you’re asking where you should go next, I always thought the fields in Wyoming were lovely.”

Dean mulled it over, tapping the heel of his prosthetic on the asphalt. “But you’ll be in-between here and there, right? Just… That’s a long time.”

“I’ll be wherever you want me to.” And without warning, Castiel reached forward to cup his face with both hands, his palms bleeding warmth into Dean’s cheeks; Dean fell into it with ease, gasp caught in his throat when Castiel ever so gently tugged him closer, their lips meeting under the shade of the willow.

It should have surprised Dean how much he wanted it, really, how easily it was to give himself over to Castiel’s touch, the gentle insistence of his lips, his tongue coaxing Dean open, swallowing his moans. Anyone else, and Dean would have pushed them away, red faced and terrified; but this was Castiel, the Angel who watched over him, who kept him alive despite his self-worth, despite whether he deserved it or not. _Castiel_ , who touched him with admiration, with love, a love Dean rarely felt before, especially from someone so ethereal.

Parting left him empty and panting, lips red and wet in the shadows; Castiel didn’t fare much better, a flush painting his cheeks bright pink. “What was that for?” Dean managed, touching his fingers to his lips, still awestruck.

Softly, Castiel went in again, pecking him once with a smile. “I wanted to.”

Oh— _oh_. “That’s—yeah,” Dean stammered. “You wanna—?”

“We don’t have to,” Castiel volunteered, an out. No forced proposition, nothing that he didn’t want. “I understand if you’re uncomfortable.”

“It’s not that,” Dean said, too rushed for his liking. “No, this is fine. More than fine, actually. Just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting off his blush, all while Castiel watched on, never once pushing. “You’re just… Too good for me, y’know?”

In lieu of words, Castiel just took his hand within his own, joining their fingers. “Never,” he spoke, soft, melodic. “I’ll show you, if you let me.”

“You don’t…” Dean shook his head, even as Castiel led him out of the way of the Impala and backed Dean up against the willow, just as disbelieving as ever. Still, Castiel showed him sympathy, allowing Dean to work through his thoughts with patience. _Bless_ him, really. “This isn’t… weird? You barely…”

“If you’re asking if I have feelings for you, I do,” Castiel affirmed, hands at his sides. He toed the sand beneath their feet, his eyes never once leaving Dean’s. “I don’t expect you to return them—”

“I… Yeah.” Dean ducked his head, cheeks hot. “Just… How long? How long have you…”

Castiel looked to the willow, then back to Dean, a sunbeam breaking through and bathing his hair in light. “Not until recently,” Castiel admitted. “I think I’ve always loved you in some capacity, but never romantically.” Reaching out, he took Dean’s wrist and brought Dean’s fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss over his ring finger. “Angels aren’t meant to join with humans, but I find myself… drawn to you. If you’re willing, I intend to court you.”

Another time, and Dean would have laughed, cracked a joke in attempt to alleviate the tension between them. But now, he could barely even look up, shame burning deep between his ribs, even when Castiel kissed his fingers again with closed eyes. “How’re you gonna do that?” he asked, a whisper in the breeze.

“You’ll have to trust me,” Castiel said, quiet, and leaned in, kissing the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Think of this as our dance.”

Dean blinked, his eyes stinging; from pollen or emotion, he couldn’t tell. Castiel kissed him again in the interim, just as teasing as the others, lips gently sliding along Dean’s own until Dean cupped Castiel’s cheeks, tilting his head enough for them to fit, a near perfect match. Castiel kept his hands low, firmly placed on Dean’s hips and eventually wrapping around his waist, tugging him flush. With the first touch of Castiel’s tongue against his own, Dean moaned, skin heating when Castiel snaked his fingers under the hem of his Henley, just barely, warmer than the air blowing through the branches above their heads. Given the chance, he could get used to this, to feeling Castiel close to him, hands roaming his skin, caring for him in a way no one ever had before, at least not until now.

  _If only_.

The noise of someone clearing their throat startled Dean, his hands freezing on Castiel’s neck and chest, their kiss abruptly halted. Out of fear, he pulled away and backed himself further into the tree, only to be met by Sam leaning against the driver’s side door of the Impala with his arms crossed atop the roof, some mixture of horror and amusement playing across his face. _I’m never gonna live this one down_ , Dean thought, red down to his neck with humiliation, just before Sam butted in, “Dude, with Jack Twist?”

“I don’t recognize that name,” Castiel said, more composed than Dean could have ever hoped to be. “What is he—?”

“He’s a character, Cas. You look like him,” Dean cut him off, breath shaking, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sam, this is—”

“Wait.” Hands slapped on the Impala’s roof, Sam stared, bewildered, at Castiel, eyes wider than probably healthy. “ _You’re the_ Angel? But—Dean said you looked—”

“I can resemble anyone at will,” Castiel stated. Both Dean and Sam watched him, Dean concentrating on anything other than his lips, _anything_ other than the hands that touched him just seconds before. “Sometimes I’m myself. Sometimes I’m someone that can make whoever feel more comfortable.”

Which explained Billie and the scrawniest version of Sam he could remember. Where Jake Gyllenhaal had come from, Dean didn’t want to find out; that secret had been carefully filed away until _now_ , at least. Sam didn’t appear disgusted or at all shocked about the turn of events—if anything, he was practically _thrilled_ that Castiel actually existed and wasn’t a figment of Dean’s imagination. An actual Angel—Dean still couldn’t believe it, even with Castiel standing right there.

“Dude, you’re _real_.” Sam stepped forward before either Dean or Castiel could back away, awestruck. Castiel humored him with a chuckle; Dean just covered his eyes. “I mean, I didn’t think you _weren’t_ , since you fixed Dean and all, but I didn’t—You’re _you_.” Without missing a beat, Sam reached out to clap Castiel’s shoulder; Dean stopped him by clearing his throat with a glare. “…Right, sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel said, gentle. “I can perform a miracle if you’d like proof.”

Dean threw his head back, thumping against the willow. “Cas—”

“I’ve actually got this scar right here.”

After that, Dean rounded the tree a few steps and pinched his eyes closed, attempting to drown out the ensuing conversation. Somehow, Sam averted the entire situation by wanting the gash from the werewolf hunt three years ago removed from his arm as proof that Angels were real and amongst humanity. Whatever Castiel did, Sam sounded ecstatic about it, going off onto a tangent about what else Castiel could do, if Heaven was real, if God existed.

All of it left a sour taste in Dean’s mouth, long after the voices stopped and Sam relocated himself to the front seat of the Impala, waiting for Dean to leave the tree. And for Castiel to leave Dean’s side, incidentally. “You expected him to berate you,” Castiel mentioned, the toes of his shoes brushing Dean’s. Dean kept his gaze to the grass below his feet, arms crossed. It felt safer there under the canopy, on the other side of the willow and away from Sam’s prying eyes. “Though, I may have stolen his attention.”

“’S fine,” Dean murmured and held himself tighter. Castiel, in an effort to comfort him, pulled his arms free and took both of his hands, rubbing his thumb over the backs of them. “It’s just… a lot to take in. You and… him walking up. I’ve never told him about—”

“You don’t have to say it if you’re not comfortable.” Castiel kissed Dean’s palm again, drawing another blush from Dean. “Was I too forward with you?”

“Little,” Dean laughed, hollow. “Didn’t think you…”

“I told you,” Castiel soothed and pulled Dean close, arms around his waist, nose buried in his neck, “Always, since your soul was conceived. In a way, I’m still your guardian Angel.”

“…Yeah.” Eyes closed, Dean nodded, both hating and reveling in Castiel’s touch, the gentle huff of breath teasing his skin with Castiel’s every breath. “I do too. Like you, I mean. Just… Why me?”

“You’ll have to find that out on your own.” Castiel snuck a kiss to his jaw and pulled away, hands still lingering on Dean’s hips, steady, a rock to hold onto. “I have to—”

“Don’t.” Dean clasped his shoulders in a rush, swallowing his nerves. “Don’t. …Tell me I’m not imagining this. Tell me—Tell me this isn’t a dream. That I’m not still stuck in that bed, that I’m not…” _Dead_ , his mind supplied. Dead and buried six feet under in an unmarked plot, no name to his headstone, no one to mourn his passing other than his brother and a handful of others. His eyes welled as the list went on, endless, grating. “Tell me I’m…”

“You’re alive,” Castiel said and sealed it with another kiss, this one more intending than the last, and Dean could have sworn he saw determination in his eyes, irises glowing bright blue. “You’re alive, and you’re here. And never once will I leave you.”

“Tell me where you’re going,” Dean croaked. “Please—”

Castiel smiled, just enough. “Wherever you want me to be, I’ll be there.”

With a parting kiss, Castiel faded with a rustle, several of the willow branches bowing with his departure, leaving Dean grasping at nothing in the shade. Sam honked and startled him, Dean’s eyes still glassy with unshed tears; he wiped them away before rounding the car and maneuvering himself into the passenger seat, a faint tremor still running through his hands.

Castiel had feelings for him—Castiel wasn’t going to _leave_ him.

He couldn’t process what that meant, at least not now.

“A guy, huh?” Sam asked, purely observant. Pulling the car from the parking spot, they drove in silence to the exit gate and back onto the main road. “Just… Never expected it.”

“Never wanted to talk about it,” Dean said through a sigh. “‘Specially with dad around. How well d’you think he woulda handled that?”

Sam let out a slow exhale in reply. “You know I wouldn’t’ve said anything,” he spoke, barely audible over the roar of the engine as they pulled onto the highway towards Deland. “I don’t care if you’re ga—”

“I’m not _gay_ ,” Dean asserted, more abrupt than he intended. “Just… Both, I guess. I don’t _know_ , man.”

“That’s fine,” Sam said, calm. Calmer than Dean felt, at least. “And I won’t hold that against you. But next time, maybe not in public? I don’t want you getting hurt if anyone sees—”

“No one’s gonna _see_ ,” Dean blurted. Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed. “Trust me, okay? I’m gonna… If it happens again, it’ll be in private.”

“ _Please_ ,” Sam let out an exasperated sigh, “don’t let me walk in on you—”

Dean laughed. “You’ve walked in on worse.”

-+-+-+-

Garbage, no matter if Dean were in Tupelo or Boise or Bangor, stunk. Standing behind their hotel wasn’t his idea of a good way to spend the evening, even less so behind a dumpster while Sam tossed individual plastic orange vials into it, caps removed. Individual pills scattered into the waste, out of reach, not that Dean wanted to retrieve them anyway, especially with Sam’s method of disposal. “Can’t flush them,” Sam reiterated earlier when Dean asked. But that would have been better than _this_ , standing downwind from an almost overflowing dumpster while Sam destroyed his stash.

“You got the last one,” Sam asked after pitching the final bottle, shirt pulled up over his nose.

Dean looked down at the bottle in his hand, half full, his full name printed on the sticker. “…Not this one,” he decided, catching the worry in Sam’s eyes. “Not that I’m gonna need it, but…”

“I get it.” Sam nodded, wary. “I get it, Dean, really. But if you start—”

“I’m not,” Dean grunted. “Swear on a stack of Bibles, I’m not gonna touch ‘em.”

Another nod, this time forced. “Then give them to me.”

Dean glanced between the bottle and Sam, to the dumpster, back to Sam. “Merry Christmas.” In defeat, Dean tossed him the bottle, nearly falling from Sam’s hand. “You gonna keep it or trash it?”

Even in the dim light, Dean watched Sam swallow, contemplate, his brows furrowed. He could toss it, and Dean could— _would_ —do nothing about it, left only to silently mourn his last escape in the world. After all of the things Dean pulled on Sam in the last few years—dragging him away from college, failing as the surrogate parent he was never meant to be—he deserved it, and more. But to his shock, Sam pocketed the bottle and offered Dean a smile, however small it was. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Dean nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Merry Christmas.”


	6. Wyoming

_February 8 th, 2007  
Casper, Wyoming_

Hell was dark and empty, and something was gnawing at Dean’s leg.

Dreams were one thing, existing somewhere outside of his direct control, always lingering in the deepest reaches of sleep. But nightmares, even with the addition of sleep aids and the occasional Ibuprofen, submerged him into the abyss, unable to fight off whatever scenario his own mind created.

For now, the only thing Dean was aware of was the darkness that surrounded him, hundreds of thousands of tiny pinpricks of light dotting the black sky, forever out of reach, far beyond his fingertips. He lingered there long enough for fatigue to set in, his eyes closing, the stars disappearing from view, like they never existed.

Cold followed, nipping at his clothed skin, needles dragging along the surface, incessant, but never fully sinking in. Again, Dean looked to the sky, stars replaced with stalactites and the faint, jarring noises of dripping water, pelting his forehead every few seconds. Something growled close to his ear, almost canine, rancid breath washing over his face and flooding his senses. All at once, it felt _real_ , the heat of the creature’s breath drenching his face, the growls louder now, demanding.

 _It’s back_ —the damn wendigo was _back_ , this time looking for what it failed to take.

Dean threw a punch before it sunk its fangs into his throat, knocking it off of him and to the side. If he could escape and make it to the entrance of the cave, he at least had a shot at survival. Beneath him, the ground crumbled and gave way, only long enough to keep the wendigo off him for a few steps, but always gaining. Always on his trail, howling along the way.

For what felt like hours, Dean ran with his own two feet, ducking out of the way of overhangs and jutting roots, his own breaths almost part of the destruction in his wake, the wrathful growls from his attempted attacker never far from reach. An endless, unwavering trek, until fatigue took him, the rocks swallowing him whole along with the creature at his back, both falling into nothing.

It should have been safe—should have taken him away, dropped him somewhere and woken him up. But the wendigo grabbed him by the throat instead and squeezed, hard; with all of his senses, Dean fought back and screamed—for his brother, for his father, _anyone_ —all to no avail. Blood coated his hands, dripped down his clothes, seeped from the gaping hollow where his foot should have been, where his body should have existed. He felt none of it, nothing but the sheer cold and someone screaming his name above the growls and his bones shattering, his life bleeding from his skin.

“Dean,” Sam shouted, hands on Dean’s shoulders. Dean awoke, panting and delirious, fisting the rumpled sheets strewn about the bed, everywhere but on him. “Dean, _Dean_. Wake up—”

“I’m awake,” Dean barked, half-laughing in his own mania. “Shit— _Shit_ , don’t touch me,” he wheezed and rolled away, far enough for Sam to let go and back off, relocate to his own mattress. _Panic attack_. He could deal with that, just as long as Sam didn’t try to make him move at any point in the near future, or _speak_ to him for that matter. _Just breathe_ , Dean told himself and folded in closer, concentrating on a single crack in the hotel wall, just above the air conditioning unit below the window.

All the while, Sam never made a sound, just sat there while Dean gathered himself and, eventually, stretched his limbs, rolling onto his back. His chest still felt tight, palms sweating profusely, but the worst had passed. He wasn’t dead; out of reflex, he reached down to clutch his socked stump, squeezing tight enough to hurt. “Fuckin’ hate that,” Dean mumbled, voice slurred from sleep and waning adrenaline, his limbs heavy.

“You were screaming,” Sam said, frail. “Wouldn’t stop. I’d been trying for five minutes.” Dean blinked at the ceiling, heart still beating a rapid rhythm in his chest. “…What was it?”

“… I don’t remember the night it happened,” Dean managed, arm over his eyes. “I keep… seeing things. I felt it, I thought—I’m not dead, am I?”

“I hope not,” Sam said, a minor assurance; Dean still took it as fact and lowered his arm, extending his hand to the popcorn ceiling. “You remember where you are?”

“Bumfuck Wyoming. Some hotel by the river ‘cause you wanted to go hiking.”

Sam snorted. “ _You_ wanted to hike. Entire reason we’re going to the mountain today.” He stopped; Dean felt Sam’s eyes on him, a question burning in the space between their beds. “You gonna be able to go?”

Dean let out a breath, emptying his lungs. “Doubt it,” he answered, eyes shut. Even walking felt like too much effort, especially given the hour. The clock on the nightstand read 8:57, too late for him to be waking up or doing anything productive, especially given his chills. At some point, it started snowing in the night, a few inches of white covering the windowsill and the parking lot, blanketing the Impala’s hood. At least that explained the cold; as to why neither of them hadn’t turned on the heat, he couldn’t answer to. “Think you can do it without me?”

Sam scoffed. “We’ve been doing this for months, Dean. Think I know what we gotta ask them by now.” He stood long enough to stretch his limbs and head to the bathroom across the room, disappearing behind the off-white painted wall. “There anything specific you want me to ask the Levine’s?”

Rolling over and yawning into the sheets, Dean covered his head with his pillow and tucked his foot under the blankets. “Ask ‘em if you can bring any cookies back.”

For the first time in weeks, Dean had actually been excited to meet someone, too. Marnie Levine owned a bakery in Casper specializing in holiday confections and— _apparently_ —Wyoming’s best triple chocolate chip cookies. Her Rottweiler, James, had been stolen in a break in six months before and allegedly released into the wilderness, only to presumably be attacked and eaten by a coyote or whatever else roamed the plains or mountain tops. But somehow, he survived and returned to town with a limp and a ribbon tied around his throat, along with a name tag reading ‘Lost but now found.’

Not really miracle material, but at the time, James had been a puppy and had never left their yard; wandering home of his own free will, and to Marnie’s front door, no less, was a certifiable feat. Plus, Sam was a complete sucker for animals, especially dogs. And if Castiel saved James from certain death, even better.

But now instead of helping Sam pack a cooler for a day trip into the snowy mountains, Dean listened to Sam gather the bare essentials and pack the car outside, presumably for a short trip. No reason to stay if Dean couldn’t be there; hopefully Marnie would understand. It wasn’t the first interview he missed, but he still felt guilty all the same, knowing that _he_ was the reason he and Sam were conducting the interviews in the first place. And now, his own brain planned to cripple him for the day—lovely.

“I brought back a few donuts from the lobby earlier, if you want them,” Sam said from the door, pleased with himself. “Almost got my arm ripped off, but they should still be warm.”

Dean snorted and waved Sam off, pillow over his face. “Go hug a dog, you dork.”

Sam’s laughter died off the second the door closed, muffled through the window. The roar of the Impala’s engine consumed the temporary silence Sam’s departure left, fading as he pulled out of the parking lot and down the road. Out of sight, out of mind. Alone, Dean rolled onto his back on the mattress and watched the ceiling, at least until the panic faded and overwhelming hunger took over. Leaning his head up, he spotted the stack of four napkin-wrapped donuts on the desk all the way on the other end of the room, next to a full coffee pot, probably lukewarm at best.

“Could’ve at least made it easy for me,” Dean complained and flopped back down, spread-eagle. Moving proved too much of a hassle, especially now; maybe a few more minutes and he would at least attempt it, maybe after another nap or three.

Two minutes into a pleasant doze, and Dean stirred to the sound of wingbeats, the notepad on the bedside table fluttering in the breeze. Dean blinked himself awake again and rubbed an eye, the other opened far enough to discern the enemy. If anyone were potentially looking to kill him, they would have busted through the door and done it by now, or at least wouldn’t hide. With a cursory glance around the room, he found nothing of immediate interest, at least until he spotted the body stealing his donuts. “Thought I told you to stop showing up like that,” Dean yawned. “Lucky I’m half asleep.”

“At least you’re clothed this time,” Castiel snarked, too pleased with himself. He actually looked like himself today, dressed in the same gray suit he wore almost a year ago, tie hanging loose around his throat, shoes left at the door and revealing clean white socks. His hair was swept off to one side, a few loose strands draped over his forehead, swaying when he moved. “Though, I wasn’t averse—”

“Alright, y’big perv.” Dean rolled his eyes and sat up, raking both hands through his hair; he needed a haircut at some point, the strands too long at the back of his neck, tickling his ears. “You come here to steal breakfast?”

“I told you before, I don’t need it.” Castiel turned and offered a donut to Dean, along with a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee. Not the most remarkable breakfast in the world, but better than nothing. “You look pale.”

In lieu of an answer, Dean promptly shoving a quarter of the donut into his mouth. “Nightmare,” he admitted, swallowing and chasing it down with near-cold coffee. “’N it’s fuckin’ cold. Ain’t been in the sun for a week ‘cause of the weather. Is it snowing everywhere?”

“It’s winter,” Castiel said, indifferent, and sat at the foot of Dean’s bed, shrugging off his suit jacket. Just barely, Dean resisted the urge to stare. “I’ve always found the snow beautiful.”

“It is when you’re not used to it,” Dean chuckled. “Don’t think I’ve seen it snow this much in my life.”

“You’re also traveling. Perhaps you’re just seeing more of now that you have a purpose.”

Upon spotting the gleam in Castiel’s eye, Dean turned to stare at the comforter, now hanging haphazardly off to one side of the bed. He would fix it at some point, maybe after Castiel left or the next time he decided to take a nap. “Startin’ to think you like popping in on me,” Dean said, solely to change the subject. “You gonna show up everywhere I go?”

“As long as you want me there.” Leaning over, Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean’s temple, a cold burst of what Dean could only describe as lightning cascading down his spine and through his limbs until the tremors stopped, at least for now. Even with that, Dean turned away and crossed one leg over the other, absently picking at a loose thread in his sock. “…You’re still scared,” Castiel whispered close to his ear.

Faintly, Dean nodded, eyes pinched shut. He could do this. Despite the nightmares, despite everything, he could talk to Castiel. It was probably bound to happen someday, he figured. “Not used to it,” Dean began, gesturing to Castiel without ever looking up. “Not used to… you, I guess. The whole…”

“You don’t feel you deserve what you have,” Castiel answered for him. Dean agreed and prostrated himself on the mattress, heart skipping when Castiel moved up to sit with his back against the headboard, afterwards carding his fingers through Dean’s hair, smoothing down the strands. “You know that’s not true.”

“It is,” Dean said and rolled onto his side, facing Sam’s empty bed. “Just… Still don't have any proof you’re gonna stick around. And you touch me like you know me—”

Castiel’s hand hovered over his shoulder. “But I—”

“You’re gonna end up the same,” Dean blurted. Between them, the silence grew deeper the longer Dean mulled over his thoughts, every word more painful than the last. “You’re gonna… Everyone, Cas. _Everyone_ I ever knew, everyone I ever… They all left. Or died, or both. And I always thought, if I just tried harder, if I _cared_ more, maybe they’d still be here. And—fuck, you’re an _Angel_ , and you’re sayin’ you ain’t gonna be like all the others?”

Fingers in Dean’s hair, Castiel soothed him long enough to breathe. “I’m not them, Dean. Why do you expect—”

“Because that’s how it is, ’n how it’s always gonna be.” Face tucked into his elbow, Dean pulled himself closer, closed off to Castiel’s touch. Castiel might as well have branded him, the way his hand burned against his skin, the warmth almost too much to bear. “You’re gonna get sick of my shit, ’n you’re gonna stop showin’ up, and I’m gonna have to deal with the fact I did all of this for nothin’.

“…All I do is hurt people, Cas.” He stopped to wipe his eyes, wetness welling in the crease of his nose. “Y’know, I can’t remember a time I was actually… _happy_ about something. Even before mom… Dad wasn’t there. Not much. He’d show up for a few weeks and then leave, and I’d have to be there when Mom’d cry, thinkin’ it was her fault. Even after Sammy was born, shit didn’t change.

“I didn’t get that innocence, Cas. I never got to have that thought in my head that _maybe_ things weren’t a shitshow, that I could actually have something without it being ripped away. I didn’t get to keep mom, ’n hell, I barely got a damn father. Left me ’n Sam in motels while he went off and played hero for days, _weeks_. I was a kid, ’n he just…”

“Dean,” Castiel hushed. Thankfully, he pulled his hand away, if only to let the weight rest near his head, pushing the mattress down. “What he did to you has no effect on who you are.”

“You weren’t there,” Dean hissed. “You didn’t… I lost Sam one day. Went out to grab a box of cereal and came back and he was gone. ’N I just… I panicked. I called Dad again and again, ’n all I got was his voicemail. Turns out he was fine. Sam met a kid at the pool the next door over and they were in his room, but that didn’t stop…” He paused, half wishing the bed would catch fire. Even years later, the memory felt too fresh, a scar on his soul, one of many. “The kid’s mom taught me how to cover bruises after she saw me.”

Castiel’s sigh was deafening. “You didn’t deserve what he put you through,” he said, voice wavering just enough for Dean to take notice. “But you can’t let that make you who you are.”

“You aren’t listening, are you?” Dean laughed under his breath, caught around a sob. Castiel watched him when he sat up, ever patient; Dean couldn’t even look at him anymore, Castiel too bright, too pure for him. Too _holy_. “I don’t know ‘nything else. ‘Cause of him, my whole damn life’s been fucked from one point to the next. And now he’s dead, and you’re gonna waltz in here and tell me that what he did don’t matter? That I should just forget—”

“I’m not asking you to forget.” Castiel clasped his shoulders before Dean could protest, his grip crushing, absolute. Dean shivered under his hold, swallowing down the fear that coiled in his gut. “But I’m asking you to look at yourself, Dean. Look beyond your father. Look past how he treated you, look past the monsters you’ve killed in his name. Look—Look at me, Dean.”

He couldn’t—not now, maybe not ever. “’S too hard,” Dean muttered, head bowed. “Can’t—”

“You’re not your father.” Castiel tightened his grip, Dean letting out a whine in return. “Look at me.”

“Couldn’t even take care of Sammy,” Dean gasped, tears seeping through closed eyelids. “Never had enough money to feed him, couldn’t keep my nose clean half the damn time. Had to… I don’t even wanna remember half the shit I did just to get him through the night. He just wanted to know when we were goin’ home, ’n I couldn’t even tell him that. He came first, and I still failed—”

“You didn’t fail—”

“I did.” With a shout, Dean pushed Castiel away and made to leave the bed, belatedly catching sight of his leg, at what should have been there for the last eight months. Almost an entire year, and he still wasn’t used it, wasn’t used to the fact that Castiel saved him from certain death, that Castiel was still there, sitting at his back, silent. “…You shoulda let me die.”

“I told you before,” Castiel started, firm, “You’re worth more—”

“I’m not!” Fighting back didn’t work, not when Castiel pulled him into an unwilling embrace, his face forcefully tucked against Castiel’s chest. All Castiel did was hold him closer the harder Dean pushed him away, all of his attempts ending in vain. “I’m not—You _can’t_ —”

“I can,” Castiel whispered. “And I do. These last few months have been the most memorable of my existence because of you, Dean. I don’t care if you hate me, or if you don’t want to see me again. But never once will I leave you.”

Dean let out a choked cry and fisted Castiel’s button down, chest tight. “Don’t hate you,” he managed, hoarse. “Never hated you.”

Castiel held him tighter, until Dean’s shoulders stilled and silence resumed, the only noise that of Dean’s quiet sniffling and Castiel’s breathing, steady, something to hold onto. “What you’ve been through doesn’t make you who you are,” Castiel murmured close to his ear, hand cupping the back of Dean’s head. “You’re not the product of your past. You’ve grown so much, Dean… The man I’ve watched over is strong and won’t back down. He puts his soul into whatever he touches and he loves with his entire heart.

“These hands,” Castiel took Dean’s hands and clasped them within his own, bringing them to his lips, “destroy, yet nurture life simultaneously. You save people. You’ve saved your brother countless times, you’ve saved your family, your friends, time and time again. And you never expect anything in return. Yet, you can’t fathom that someone wants to do the same for you.”

“‘Cause I don’t deserve it,” Dean wept, noiseless “Don’t—You’ve seen me. You know what I’ve done, you know my body count. ’N you think after all that—”

“You did it for the greater good,” Castiel reiterated and held his hands closer, laying them over his heart. “Believe me when I say, you deserve the world.”

With hesitance, Dean blinked and clutched the fabric of Castiel’s shirt, Castiel’s heart beating under his palm, rhythm pounding with each breath. Steady like his own, too human, too real. “You’re lying,” Dean croaked; Castiel caught him as he fell forward and brought him into an embrace, Castiel’s hand at the back of his head, the other around his hip. “Can’t do this,” Dean breathed, wet, into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “Shoulda just left me there…”

“I wouldn’t change my decision, even if you ask,” Castiel said, solemn. “You deserve better than death.”

“Just ‘cause you keep sayin’ that doesn’t make it true,” Dean huffed. “Why’re you hangin’ around me? Someone so—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Castiel patted his hip in warning. “I’m here because I want to be.”

Dean snorted. “Don’t got nothin’ better to do?”

“Heaven is boring,” was Castiel’s only answer. “I’d rather spend my time here, if you’d be amenable. You’re…”

Castiel’s words hung thick in the air, even unspoken. _Amazing, wonderful, loved, worthy_ —Dean inhaled them all and let them settle heavy around his heart, words he knew he didn’t deserve, couldn’t begin to fathom. Even thinking of them left him winded, eyes once again welling, still stinging and raw from minutes before. “Ain’t so bad yourself,” Dean slurred, snuck his arms around Castiel’s waist, holding him tight. “What are you…”

“I’ll stay,” Castiel said and pressed a kiss to Dean’s temple. “You should rest.”

That sounded like the best idea in the world, in his opinion. Carefully, Castiel helped Dean to lay himself back down and covered him with the rumpled sheets, resituating himself at the headboard all the while. With the last vestiges of awareness clinging to his consciousness, Dean managed to ask, “You gonna sleep here?”

Castiel stroked his hair in reply. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

-+-+-+-

_11:59 PM_

Dean hadn’t meant to nap, really. Nor did he mean to completely fall asleep after dinner, stomach full of steak from the restaurant down the highway, comfortable in a way he hadn’t felt in months, _years_ , even. Throughout, Castiel was there, lingering at his side while Sam sat in the seat opposite them, their booth cramped in ways Dean was unwilling to admit he enjoyed, especially in front of Sam. And still, Castiel _stayed_ , even chatted with Sam while Dean sat silent, in awe that someone actually kept their promise, at least for the time being.

He should have known it wouldn't last, really. Nothing ever did.

A minute to midnight, Dean woke to the sound of wind chimes, audible yet invisible to his eye. Room bathed in black, he spotted Castiel’s shape by the window, back to him, eyes locked on the window pane and the snow gathering outside, thicker now, more daunting the longer he looked at it. They would be leaving tomorrow, probably trudging through the worst of the weather along the way.

Still, the more Dean stared, the deeper his stomach sank, especially when Castiel sighed, let his head hang. “You’re gonna go, aren’t you?” Dean asked, low enough to not stir Sam from the bed across the room.

Castiel never once looked at him, his shoulders sagging under some unseen weight. “I’ll meet you at your next destination,” Castiel replied, soft, gentler than Dean remembered hearing. _He’s leaving you_ , his mind chimed in. _He’s not coming back_. “It’s currently sunny in Washington.”

With reluctance, Dean nodded and pulled himself free from the bedsheets, shoving them aside. “Kiss me,” he said, almost an order, firm enough to catch Castiel’s attention. “Before you go, just…”

Castiel turned to meet him, his fingers cradling the back of Dean’s head and sliding down his neck while they kissed, wet and heated, but enough for Dean to cling to, to remember when he needed it the most. “Remember what I told you,” Castiel said when they parted, leaving a parting peck to the corner of his lips. “I’ll see you there.”

Dean nodded, leaned into the warmth of Castiel’s hand when Castiel left him, his departure marked with the rustle of wings and a lone feather on Dean’s bed, black pinion colored blue and green at the tip, ruffled yet soft to the touch. Taking it in hand, Dean ran his fingers down the barbs and smoothed it again, over and over until he sunk back into the mattress, clinging to it like a lifeline, the only thing he had of Castiel to remember him by.

 _He won’t be back_ , he told himself, and wept into the sheets, just barely managing to keep himself quiet. _Don’t get attached. Let him go._

-+-+-+-

_Orick, California  
March 17 th, 2007_

Castiel wasn’t there.

Despite his words and promises, despite all assurances in his waking hours, Castiel wasn’t there when Dean woke up a month ago, nor was he anywhere in sight in the coming days. _Weeks_ , even. Just up and left in the middle of the night, leaving Dean to wake up when Sam rushed the following morning in with a _puppy_ in his arms, and not even the dog he went to see the day before.

No, they apparently owned a _beagle_ now, found in a box outside of the local diner on a breakfast run, half sodden and covered in snow. Dean had been too busy wondering where Castiel had gone to care about Sam bringing a dog into their hotel or the fact he wanted to _keep_ it rather than take it to the shelter. “They’d kill her if no one came,” Sam initially reasoned and cradled the thing to his chest, ignoring it as it gnawed a wet spot into his shirt. “And it’s snowing. What was I supposed to do?”

It took a great deal of convincing just to let Dean accept the idea of keeping a live animal in the car. But it was something to focus on instead of thinking about Castiel for hours on end. Over the coming weeks and having to put up with Lily staring at him from the middle seat as they traversed the country, Dean found no physical trace of the Angel in any town they visited, any motel they stayed in. Interviews progressed the same as they always did, all stories of wonderful people who were saved by some force they couldn't explain, all describing impossible odds and one singular figure, always in the same suit and tie, always showing up when they needed it the most.

But not when Dean needed him. “Don't think he’s here anymore,” Dean said across the table in a diner outside of Yakima while Sam fed Lily end pieces of toast under the table.

“You think he went back to Heaven?” Sam asked, his concern masked in interest. “He’s been here for months, and now he’s just… gone? But where?”

For weeks, Dean rolled the question over in his head, speculated about Castiel’s motives to the point of anger, slowly shifting to acceptance. Maybe Castiel never wanted him in the first place, or had finally—after months of tagging along and seeing Dean at his worst—gotten sick of putting up with Dean and left, just when Dean had started to believe something could change, that maybe, _just_ maybe, his life was worth more than he suspected. Then Castiel was gone—out of sight, definitely not out of mind.

Castiel could be anywhere, Dean knew—could be any of the faces he saw in the towns they passed through, could have served them breakfast or dinner or worked the registers at every mom and pop gas station across the mountains and the valleys. Could have been the woman that helped them when the engine overheated in Boise, or the man that slid Sam a free toy after Lily refused to let it out of her sights. He could have been any of them—but no one ever approached Dean like Castiel had, nor had they touched him the same way, whispered encouragement into his ear like he deserved it.

Maybe Dean did deserve it—maybe after everything, after everything John put him through in life, after having to raise Sam on his own for most of his life, after talking himself off the ledge more times he could count, maybe he _did_ deserve to feel something for himself other than outright hatred and self-loathing. Maybe he did well after all. Sam was alive, Dean had most of his health aside from his prosthetic, they owned a _dog_ , and the Impala was running.

They could think about jobs later, preferably if this trip ever ended. Calling it quits never once crossed his mind in the prior months, but after no sight of Castiel in weeks, maybe their run was coming to an end. Sam could go back to college and finish his degree, and Dean could live at Bobby’s until he found some place that would accept him, missing limbs or otherwise.

What a fantasy—still, Dean held onto it, and if he dreamt of meeting Castiel again, he never spoke a word of it.

Dean awoke to the sound of Lily snoring that morning in March, her body curled up against his stomach with an ear lying over her eyes, belly rising and falling with each breath. At least he had her, however begrudging he was to admit it, especially not to Sam. Sam _loved_ that dog and kept her at his side all day, but she still managed to worm her way from Sam’s hold at night to sleep next to Dean, snoring to her heart’s content as long as he let her. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Dean whispered, lifting her ear enough to startle her awake. “What if your daddy finds you, huh?”

Lily didn't answer, just let her head drop back onto the sheets and snuggled herself even closer to Dean, effectively trapping him in bed. Reaching over to the nightstand, Dean lifted the alarm clock and held it over his face, the aged dial illuminated by the faint light streaming through thick curtains. 5:32; too early to get out of bed, yet too late to sleep any longer, especially with Sam snoring on the opposite side of the room.

Palm Cafe and Motel wouldn’t have been their first choice in lodging if it were daylight, but given the hour in which they drove into Orick the night prior, it was the only place they spotted that didn’t cater to couples or look like the roof was caving in. Sure, he could smell mold in the walls, but they stayed in worse before, namely that dump in Missoula a decade ago with the sagging ceiling and shower that only pumped in dark lake water. The only benefit was the restaurant downstairs with their odd assortment of flags and supposedly the best pie in the state—Dean would be the judge of that.

Outside, Dean listened to the faint sound of wind rushing through the redwood forest on the other side of the two lane, a car rumbling past in bad need of a brake job. Underneath the well-worn pillow on the other side of the bed, his phone buzzed twice, hard enough to vibrate through the moth-eaten mattress. They needed to find a better hotel than this, and a better town while they were at it, somewhere that didn’t leave him feeling like he needed three showers and a tub full of disinfectant.

Managing to both retrieve his cell phone and keep Lily from barking had become his specialty over the last few weeks, slowly growing from a brilliant mistake to mastery; any slight movement or noise startled her and left her bounding onto either Sam’s face or Dean’s—mostly Dean’s—in an effort to get them to confront the perpetrator. Now, she slept soundly while Dean flipped open his phone, Charlie’s name flashing across the screen.

Right—he was supposed to have texted her last night when they got in.

> Charlie: you up?  
> Charlie: come on, don’t tell me you’re dead now

Dean rolled his eyes and dropped his head back onto the pillow, beginning to thumb away.

< Dean: fell asleep. staying in bumfuck Cali, I think rats live in the bathroom  
> Charlie: have you named them yet? :O  
< Dean: if I see them, i’ll let you know  
> Charlie: any word from your angel?

Dean stuttered to reply, palms sweating against his will. Of course she would ask that; why wouldn’t she?

< Dean: nothing. think we’re getting close though. keep hearing stuff about socal  
> Charlie: what if he’s prince charming at disneyland?  
< Dean: very funny  
> Charlie: i’m serious! what if he’s got some weird job and he plays god in his spare time?  
< Dean: sounds like him  
> Charlie: you seriously haven’t heard anything?  
< Dean: nothing. pretty sure he’s fucked off somewhere. probably got tired of me  
> Charlie: >:|  
>Charlie: if I weren’t in tampa right now, i’d hit you with a newspaper  
< Dean: why are you there?  
> Charlie: it’s cold as balls outside, you think i’m gonna stay in kansas?  
< Dean: good point  
> Charlie: look, i know you don’t think he likes you, but think about it this way: what if he’s trying to tell you to figure it out on your own?

Dean blinked at the screen, nearly dropping his phone on his face. Even if that were a possibility, he wouldn’t figure Castiel to be one for cruelty, intentionally leaving just to force Dean to figure out his own worth on his own. He could barely force himself out of bed in the morning—how was he supposed to tell himself that he was worthy of love on his own? How was he supposed to look at himself in the mirror and not hate what he saw, without someone there at his side?

What was he supposed to do without Castiel?

< Dean: i need him  
> Charlie: :(  
< Dean: i thought i was getting better, and he just… left. and now all i wanna do is get my stash back and drink myself to sleep  
> Charlie: have you tried to tell him that?  
< Dean: can’t really do that when he’s not here  
> Charlie: but when you find him. does he know that?  
< Dean: idk. kinda figured he wanted nothing to do with me  
> Charlie: from what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’s got quite the crush

He barely smothered his laugh. Crush was an understatement; Castiel apparently loved him since day one, intent on rambling on about his soul whenever they were alone together, praising him in ways Dean both loathed and longed to hear. And slowly, over the weeks and during their encounters in public parks or motel rooms or that one instance in a truck stop bathroom, Dean had fallen just as hard, the pain in his chest deepening the longer Castiel stayed away and left him to his own devices.

Voluntary solitude was one thing, but being abandoned at the height of his frustration? Dean didn’t know if he could ever forgive Castiel for that.

< Dean: i just wanna see him again  
> Charlie: he ever tell you anything about hobbies?

Dean narrowed his eyes, considered.

< Dean: he collects things?  
< Dean: we were talking in Waco and he said he liked glass  
< Dean: went on and on about these stupid glass things they used on light poles  
< Dean: hello?  
> Charlie: give me five minutes

Against his side, Lily squirmed and eventually wormed her way onto Dean’s stomach, sprawling out with her paws over his breast, eyes blinking in slow beats until sleep claimed her again. Dean stroked her between her eyes while he waited for Charlie’s response, Lily’s tail twitching from side to side, soon falling lax while she snored.

> Charlie: there’s a girl named claire novak  
> Charlie: she lives in santa monica with her dad  
> Charlie: you’re not gonna believe what this guy sells  
< Dean: i haven’t had my coffee yet  
> Charlie: insulators  
> Charlie: apparently he finds a bunch in the desert and sells them  
> Charlie: they all look like penises  
< Dean: how do you know her?  
> Charlie: online forums. i remembered her saying her dad sold “weird glass shit”  
> Charlie: it’s a long shot, but you could check it out?  
< Dean: …get me the shop name

Two minutes later, Dean successfully pulled himself from bed and hopped his way to the shoddy dresser across the room to scribble a store name—Novak Custom Glassworks—and an approximate address, located in central Santa Monica, California. The only name Charlie could dig up for the shop owner was one James Isaac Novak and a photograph from a collector’s meet up two years ago.

Same man, same hair, same eyes—Castiel stood arm in arm with two other men, maybe twenty years older than him, wearing khakis and a Hawaiian shirt decorated in palm trees and clownfish. “That can’t be him,” Dean told himself, still staring at the photo displayed on his phone. “Can’t—”

Lily howled at the sudden absence of her best friend and promptly jumped from Dean’s bed onto Sam’s, directly onto the back of his head. Sam startled awake and threw himself off his mattress into the gap between their beds, reaching for anything to hurl in the direction of the door. Meanwhile, Dean watched on in awe, still holding himself up with both hands on the desk. “…Why’re you up?” Sam sputtered, not even bothering to push the hair out of his face.

Dean could only reply by tossing him his phone and holding up the ripped sheet of motel stationery. “We found Cas.”


	7. California

_March 18th, 2007  
Santa Monica, California_

By some miracle, Sam incurred no speeding tickets on the drive down, despite Dean slamming the invisible accelerator on his side of the car while Lily sat in his lap for half of the trip down the California coast, her head hanging out the half-open passenger window. Probably for the best, Dean considered in hindsight—if he were allowed to drive, they probably would have led a freeway chase down the 1 or driven off the interstate and into the ocean. Just what he needed, to die on a nondescript section of road never having learned his own potential.

But after Dean’s constant insistence that morning and practically shoving Sam out the door of their mold-infested motel room, they made it to Santa Monica just before sundown, the clouds painted bright pink and orange by the time they pulled into the parking lot of the Seaview Hotel, full of either hotel residents or beach patrons planning to leave before the sun sank and bathed the hills black.

Sam promptly passed out five minutes after they checked in and settled their belongings, but Dean couldn’t sleep. Even as the hours passed and Dean revisited the same windows on his laptop for the third hour straight, exhaustion never came, never even hinted in his bones. Lily watched him from the spot she burrowed under his comforter, her head on his lap while he typed away, plugging in search term after search term, until he could to find out who James Novak really was.

 _Nothing_. No record of birth for anyone matching his description, no driver’s license number; the only thing he had to his name was a business license and a birth certificate for his adopted daughter, Claire Novak of Pontiac, Illinois. Castiel had a _daughter_ , and Dean never even fathomed the possibility. By any consideration, she couldn’t have been human, at least not entirely. But if she was working at the shop in the morning, maybe she would know where Castiel was, or if he actually worked there in the first place.

Fatigue finally made its appearance around two, and Dean soon fell into its clutches, waking again with Lily half draped over his face and the laptop closed on the opposite side of the bed. No longer could Dean hear Sam’s snores or bleary sleep talk from the other side of the room, now replaced with the low rumble of a talk show on television.

Sam was awake—Sam _knew_ Lily was sleeping on his face.

“You stole my dog,” Sam said after a minute of Dean struggling to upright himself without waking Lily, obviously affronted.

Dean just laughed and covered Lily’s ears; she never stirred, too busy kicking her feet in her sleep to care. “Hey, she did this herself,” Dean retorted, running both hands through his hair, mussed from sleep. “When’d you get up?”

“About five. Truck downshifted outside, surprised you slept through it.”

 _Huh._ Something like that would have woken him up from a dead sleep months ago, but given their recent lodgings, they were lucky to even hear fireworks at night. Maybe it was for the better, that paranoia stripped from his bones with each night of sleep he got, four hours turning to five, to six, to eight within a few weeks’ time. Of course, Lily probably helped by forcing him to stay in bed past his previously scheduled time. At least he could say he was fully functioning now, dark circles almost gone from under his eyes, hands no longer trembling from exhaustion or nerves.

Sam yawned from his bed and covered his mouth with his hand, shaking the sleep from his eyes. Dean followed suit, almost missing when Sam asked him, “So what’re you gonna ask Cas today?”

Dean choked. “I—” he started, abruptly shutting his mouth.

“Dude,” Sam shot him a glare, “we drove all this way and you didn’t even think that far ahead?”

Palming his eyes didn’t do much other than spark stars behind his eyelids, failing to take him anywhere other than this conversation like he wished. Of course Dean didn’t consider it—the idea of seeing Castiel again took precedence over everything else, the pure drive to discover if the lead was true his sole mission. Never once had he even _thought_ to rehearse their potential conversation, or just how he would get there in the first place. Sure, it was only six blocks from the motel into the city, but could he even walk that far?

Could he _run_?

“Just—thought I’d wing it,” Dean said, not a total lie. Now, he had no choice but to go into it with his head held high and pray he could actually talk without screaming. “I mean _hell_ , Sammy, what do you expect me to say to him? Ask him why he fucked off, why he didn’t even bother to call or check in? Why he’s got me running circles trying to figure out if I’m seeing him, why he’s—”

“You’re in love with him,” Sam blurted. Dean hung his head in shame. “You’re actually… Why didn’t you say anything?”

“‘Cause it don’t matter.” Legs over the edge of the bed, Dean reached for his prosthetic under the mattress and motioned through his routine, patting the shell once it was secure. “Wanna walk down to the beach? Guarantee you this one doesn’t have snow on it.”

Across the space between their beds, Sam continued to stare, sympathy in his eyes. Dean hated that look, like he was pitiable just because someone broke his heart. “Just… I know how you feel, okay? What you have is what I’ve missed for the past year. And I don’t wanna see you screw that up because you hate yourself.”

“I don’t… hate myself,” Dean protested, face still burning. Lie or not, Dean believed it, cherished the small part of him that genuinely didn’t despise everything he stood for, didn’t want to stomp himself to bits from the flashbacks and the residual aches, the blood he could still feel under his nails, never to be cleaned away. “…Least not as much as I used to.”

Standing, Dean took his phone from the its resting place under his pillow and crossed the room to gather his clothes for the day. “‘M gonna shower,” he said, mostly to himself. “Gonna see if the shop’s open when I’m done.”

Sam nodded, slow. “…I’ve just never seen you like this.”

Dean snorted, hand to the bathroom door. “Don’t get used to it.”

-+-+-+-

As predicted, Dean found a large CLOSED sign on the front door of Novak Custom Glassworks, no sign of life through the windows and past the multicolored array of glass… _things_. _They really do look like dicks_ , Dean considered, majority of the ones on the window shelf green with multiple numbers of grooves, others white or amber, and some closer to the top a deep, rich blue. Past the collection, Dean looked for any source of light, even from a back storage room or a restroom.

Nothing. Dean glanced to the opening times listed on the red-and-white board hanging from the interior side of the door, the summer schedule listing Sunday’s opening at eight in the morning. He still had another hour to go. At least it was relatively nice outside, barely breaking sixty, even at seven in the morning. The sea breeze nipped at his throat as he sat on the bench outside, forcing him to lift his jacket collar, if only to keep his ears from freezing. Down the road, a few joggers passed near the beach, probably heading to the pier; a group of fishermen exited their hotel across the street, chatting amongst themselves, their voices fading the further they walked away.

Meanwhile, Dean kept to himself and stared down at his phone, flipping between the picture of Castiel and Charlie’s previous messages, all to remind himself of why he was there, sitting outside of Castiel’s shop at dawn, hoping for any chance to see him again. He watched every person that passed him on the sidewalk out of the corner of his eye, faking interest in something else until they disappeared around corners or into storefronts. For all they knew, Dean was either a lost tourist or a vagrant, no one to be paid attention to in the slightest.

Though, someone did. A young girl—maybe seventeen or eighteen—watched him from in front of the shop door, her hand halfway to the knob, key between her fingers. Her blonde hair fell halfway down her back in a long braid, several strands behind her ear braided into rows. Blue eyes watched him in scrutiny, her brows pinched the longer he sat there looking back at her, awestruck. “We don’t open for another hour,” she said and shoved her key into one of the three locks, pushing it open after going through all of them. “Are you that guy that called from Iowa?”

“What— _No_ ,” Dean stammered, still struggling to keep his mouth hinged. “You’re—You’re Claire, aren’t you?”

If anything, Claire’s frown deepened, her free hand twitching as if looking for something to hurl at him; Dean stood and held up his hands, palms front. “What’s it to you?” she said, mildly venomous.

Dean swallowed, kept his voice steady as he answered, “I’m here to talk to your dad.”

At that, Claire paused, following it up with hysteric laughter. “I thought you’d be shorter,” she cackled, hand over your stomach. “Didn’t tell me you’d be one of those pretty boys.”

“Hey,” Dean shoved a finger at her. “Watch who you’re—”

“Oh hush,” Claire waved him off. “Castiel doesn’t start ‘til ten today. You can stay here’n wait, or you can go down to the beach. He’s probably doing yoga or… _whatever_ he does in the mornings. I think he jogs lately.”

Great—even if Dean found him, Castiel could probably outrun him. “I’ll go… back that way,” Dean sighed, shook his leg awake. “But—What are these things?” Dean thumbed to the rows of insulators in the front window.

Claire only shook her head and stepped inside. “Shit if I know. Buncha old guys keep coming in here to buy and sell ‘em. I just run the register and blow glass on the weekends.”

With that, Claire shut herself inside and locked the door again, leaving Dean to gape on the street. _Daughter_ —Castiel actually had a _daughter_ , and she was nothing like him at all. Despite his instincts screaming at him to run, Dean kept a moderately leisurely pace walking down the sidewalks, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, the sun still struggling to rise above the ocean, the faintest hints of red and yellow peeking through the lightening blue.

It would have been beautiful if he weren’t dead set on making it to the beach before his heart burst. The first sunrise he had ever witnessed, this time within reach, looming just below the horizon. Breathing kept him centered, kept him putting one foot in front of the other, pebbled concrete turning to asphalt, to sand. Like all of the other beaches he had visited on either coast, the sand sat empty save for a few fishermen and the homeless men sleeping underneath a lifeguard station. Businesses on the pier kept silent, as well as the amusement park alongside it, the rides closed for the morning until the tourists and locals made their way there.

The ocean breeze caught his attention, filtering in through his collar, a subsequent shiver running down his spine. Dean looked up from his spot in the sand towards the calm waters, a figure breaking the picturesque scenery, draped in a coat and most likely no shoes. And for the first time in almost a year, Dean _ran_ to him, praying to every God in existence that he didn’t trip and fall on his face, or worse, have his leg fall off. The breeze freed him, wind through his hair, lungs taking in every gasp, heart wild—he could run. He could _run_. After months of taking it easy, Dean could _run_.

He broke his pace at the water’s edge, hands on his knees, sucking in air until his lungs stopped spasming and he could breathe. At his side, Castiel stood, bare feet and all, dressed in that same ratty suit and a black cashmere coat, water soaking the bottoms of his slacks. Dean watched him, transfixed, and righted himself, hands grasping at nothing, the longing to reach out and touch almost sentient in his bones. “Cas,” he croaked, just as Castiel turned to face him, exhaustion deep set within blue eyes, haunted.

Before Dean could utter another word, Castiel pulled him into his arms and cradled Dean’s head against his shoulder; Dean embraced him back just as desperately, hands fisted into Castiel’s coat. “I never thought you’d come,” Castiel whispered, voice haggard.

“I looked for you,” Dean said; he breathed Castiel in, let his scent and the smell of salt air wash over him, that alone keeping him from shattering. “I looked for you, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel replied, sliding a hand up into Dean’s hair.

“You knew, and you didn’t… Why’d you leave me?” Pulling away, Dean moved to palm Castiel’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into his clavicle. “You stayed, and you just…”

Castiel inhaled, slow, let it out through his nose. “I knew you wouldn't find the answer if we were together,”  he spoke, hushed. A gull sounded from the pier, over the gentle lap of waves along the shore. “I could only help so much. You had to do the rest on your own.”

Dean blinked, ignored the wetness spilling from his eyes, to the corner of his lips and further down. “I don’t—I don’t think I ever can,” he admitted; still, he held on, despite the ache in his throat. “I don’t, but… I can damn well _try_. I can, just… Don’t leave me again. _Please_ , I can’t… Not without you.”

Castiel palmed his cheek, pulled Dean in. “That’s all I wanted,” he whispered and kissed Dean, dragged him in until they were flush. Dean barely fought off his whimper, clutching Castiel’s hip with one hand, the other cupping Castiel’s nape; he lost himself in it, fought to get Castiel closer, deepened their kiss with no hesitance, never intending to let go again, not as long as he could have this. As long as he could keep Castiel, maybe he could survive after all.

Castiel pulled away first, lips kiss bitten and red, still wet as he said, “You ran to me.”

Dean couldn't help it; he laughed, wiping his eyes dry. “I never tried.”

“You did well,” Castiel praised, leaving a chaste kiss to Dean’s lips. “I’m proud of you, Dean.”

With those words alone, Dean let his head fall to Castiel’s shoulder, let Castiel carry his weight, keep him standing. “Proud of me too,” he said, barely audible.

And really, he was.


	8. Epilogue

_Burbank, California  
June 15th, 2009_

Sunlight woke Dean before Castiel did that morning, Castiel too content at his back to go through his usual routine of kissing Dean’s neck until he moaned himself awake, his skin afterwards bearing the marks of their early morning lovemaking for all eyes to see. Dean could hide them, and Castiel knew; but Castiel claimed he liked to see Dean like that, and Dean was never one to deny him. The marks were growing on him years later, and every morning brought with it new surprises.

Like Claire’s cat sitting on his pillow, her one eye staring down at him in contempt. “Your sister didn’t feed you before she left, did she?” Dean whispered. Alice jumped from the bed and scampered out the door in reply, her tail raised and twitching from side to side.

Dean let his head fall back into the sheets, heavy enough of a thud to make Castiel stir, the arms around Dean’s waist tightening, their dovetailed legs pressing even closer. Castiel kissed just under his ear, a wordless ‘good morning’ in every peck that left Dean reaching back to cup his head, drawing him closer. “Fuck—We gotta meet Sam at the station today—”

“I’m sure your brother won’t care,” Castiel murmured, continuing to nip at a particularly sensitive spot just below Dean’s ear. “He’s caught us naked before.”

Dean groaned, and not entirely from Castiel’s tongue. Sam had only lived in Sacramento for a year and a half, and he still managed to stumble on what Dean was doing for the majority of the day, only because he always managed to call at the most inopportune times—in the middle of working on a blown glass chandelier with Claire, morning jogs through either Burbank or Santa Monica, frantic attempts at sex while Claire was out for the day with her friends from college. And, unforgettably, one instance with Dean tied to the headboard and Sam bursting through the door to surprise Dean for his birthday.

 _Never again_ , Dean shuddered in reflection.

“Still don’t want him to think I’m some kinda… hedonist,” Dean said, quickly evolving into a hiss when Castiel lowered his hand, rubbing his hand over the bulge in Dean’s briefs, stroking along the length of it. “You’re gonna kill me…”

“You enjoy it,” Castiel said, low enough to vibrate against Dean’s skin.

Turning, Dean captured Castiel in a kiss, earning a contented moan in return. “Know I do,” Dean purred, letting himself fall lax.

For a while, Dean let Castiel work him over, let him sneak his hand under his waistband and stroke him until he was panting with every tug, hips following Castiel’s touch. “Today’s special,” he heard Castiel say, pulling him from his haze.

“’S not my birthday,” Dean sighed, lip between his teeth. “What—”

“Today’s the day we met,” Castiel stated. “Well, the first that you recall. There’s been many times before that.”

Dean chuckled and turned to Castiel again, smiling against his lips. “Thought you’d get handsy to celebrate?”

“You deserve nice things,” Castiel said, faking indifference. “I figured we could take Claire and go to the park. We’ll have dinner later, on our own.”

“You spoil me.” Another kiss, and Dean rolled onto his back, allowing Castiel to pin him to the mattress, Dean’s hands in his hair, one of Castiel’s still in his underwear. “Can’t believe I fell for you.”

“I can,” Castiel murmured, resuming stringing kisses along Dean’s throat.

Castiel stroked him for a while longer, until Dean crested and spilled into Castiel’s hand with gentle coaxing, leaving him spent on the mattress— _their_ mattress, of their shared home—and unwilling to move unless forced. Castiel left to clean his fingers, afterwards coming back with a wet washcloth and wiping Dean down while capturing his lips again, unwilling to part for anything.

“Feel like I should do somethin’ special for you,” Dean said later after their bath, shrugging his prosthetic—a new one, courtesy of a visit to Lawrence Memorial earlier in the year for an adjustment, this one dyed pure green—and a pair of sweatpants, his shirt an afterthought. “When’s the last time you ever did something for yourself?”

Dean watched Castiel stiffen by the dresser, the muscles in his back relaxing after a quiet second. Castiel rested his hands atop one of the drawers, his sigh auditory. “I haven’t… thought about it, in those terms. I’ve always been tending to someone else.”

 _Someone like me_. “Dude, pot, kettle,” Dean joshed. Standing, he walked across the carpet and let his hands slip around Castiel’s waist, forehead pressed to Castiel’s nape. “C’mon. What would you say if I wanted to take care of you for a day?”

Castiel let out a noise akin to a laugh. “Would you want to?”

“Been told I got magic hands.” Kisses Castiel’s neck, he rubbed at the soft skin beneath Castiel’s navel, through the trail of hair growing there. “I say, we go do what you want, and then come back here, send Sam ‘n Claire out for a few hours…”

“And yet you don’t want people to call you a hedonist,” Castiel practically _giggled_ , mirthful.

Dean patted his stomach in retaliation. “C’mon, I’m tryin’ to be—”

“I know.” Lowering Dean’s arms, Castiel turned to face him and cupped his wrists, tickling the soft skin underneath. Dean flushed with the gentleness of it, red spreading down to his chest the longer Castiel touched him, their kiss just one of many, always a promise of more. “…Claire said she wanted to go visit her parents today. We could spend some time there this morning. I know it’s not ideal—”

“It’s fine, Cas.” _Really._

Castiel started looking after Claire over ten years ago, after a brushfire claimed both of her parents’ lives, but not before they named Castiel as her godfather. Of her own volition, she recognized Castiel—an _Angel_ —as her father on paper, both of them knowing full and well Castiel would outlive her, and Dean, in the end. Still, Castiel cared for her like his own child, and in a way, Dean did too. Within the span of two years, Dean felt as if Claire was his own, the daughter he never had—hell, even a _sister_ , someone he could gossip to and confide even, especially when Castiel wasn’t there.

Though the same couldn't be said when Sam came into town, the two somehow always managing to team up and take him down, all to Castiel’s amusement. Dean swore, they would be the death of him one day.

“You’ll have to control yourself then,” Castiel cooed, pressed a lingering kiss to Dean’s jaw. “You wouldn’t want anyone to hear us.” 

“Only ‘cause you’re a talker.” Dean jabbed Castiel’s ribs, earning a soft chuckle. “…You sure this’s what you want?” Leaning in, Dean rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder, letting his warmth bleed into him, a lifeline. “Live ‘n die with a human?”

“I told you when I gave you the ring,” Castiel spoke, close. Carefully, he thumbed over the silver band on Dean’s finger. Not once had Dean taken it off since that day back in December, their conversation still clear in the back of his mind. About how Castiel never intended to leave his side again, about how Castiel planned to accompany him to Heaven when he finally passed. The human body could only exist for so long, but souls were endless, vast—and somewhere deep down, Dean knew his fate, knew with just that small ring, Castiel would be bound to him for eternity, until the universe ceased to be.

Hopefully, his death would be long from now, after Sam had grandkids and Claire took full ownership of the shop, after he and Castiel moved to the mountains to live by the lake, Dean growing old in an Adirondack chair with Castiel by his side.

Dean touched the band on his finger, spun it—he liked that idea, more than he ever knew. And he could have it, his future in his grasp. His future, _now_.

“I’m yours,” Dean whispered, snuck another kiss to Castiel’s lips before pulling away, hooded eyes turn to the floor. “…You’re too good for me,” he admitted, barely a breath between them. “Why’d you ever wanna end up with a sad sap like me?”

Castiel just smiled, pressed his thumb to the corner of Dean’s lips. “Because you’re special,” he said, simple, absolute. “You’re you.”

Throat tight, Dean nodded and let Castiel hold him, pressed his fingers into Castiel’s shoulder blades and the slits that ran between them, the only physical evidence of his wings ever existing, invisible to his eyes, but still wrapped around him all the same. Together, chest to chest, their hearts beat in sync, the familiar rhythm drawing life into his veins, pulling at the love within his heart, endless.

 _Absolute_.

“Love you,” Dean told him, more confident than he ever felt in his life.

Castiel smiled, kissed his hair. “I love you too,” he assured back. “And I’ll never stop.”

With closed eyes, Dean breathed in the meaning, let it consume him, swallow him whole. This was enough. This would always be enough.

 

 _The river to the ocean goes, a fortune for the undertow_  
_None of this is going my way_  
  
_There is nothing left to throw of Ginger, lemon, indigo_  
_Coriander stem and rows of hay_  
  
_Strength and courage overrides, the privileged and weary eyes_  
_Of river poet search naiveté_  
  
_Pick up here and chase the ride, the river empties to the tide_  
_All of this is coming your way_

**Author's Note:**

> It's done! I've had an idea for some sort of horrific accident happening for the last few years, and I finally got to work some of it our in this! I spent about two weeks researching how prosthetics work, so at least I can say I'm learning? It's all really interesting stuff! But aside from that, I'd like to thank Liv, Lauren and Cat for betaing and reading over this and helping me figure out what needed to be fixed and what scenes to add, and all that good stuff! Also, a big thanks to [lostloona](http://xlostloonax.livejournal.com/13800.html%20) for the artwork, I can't thank you enough!
> 
> Title and inserted lyrics are from the R.E.M. song, "Find the River". 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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